


Amaryllis

by paperstorm



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-02-13 16:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm
Summary: UPDATE: this fic is on an extended hiatus. There is a possibility I will return to it and finish it but there is also a possibility I won't. Apologies and thanks to everyone who has read and commented and cared about this story. It didn't turn out the way I wanted and I'm not sure I'm willing to struggle through it anymore.So do I remind you of someone you've never met, a lonely silhouette? And do I remind you of somewhere you want to be, so far out of reach? I wish you'd open up for me, 'cause I want to know you ... amaryllis bloom.//In 18th century Europe, Luke and Michael are members of neighboring royal families. Trapped in unhappy lives by seemingly immovable circumstances, they find a way out in each other.





	1. Tulip

_Dearest Andrew,_  
   
_I write to implore humbly for your help._  
   
_Our Michael seems recently to have slipped beyond intervention. He has always been spirited, like his mother, however in the last number of years it has progressed beyond the impish delights of childhood. Just this month, in a definitive display of disrespect for his station, he saw it fit to permanently scar his precious flesh, with steel and ink, in what was surely some nefarious shop populated by escaped prisoners and other underlings of society. As if it were not enough to imagine my heir marred in this primitive, undignified manner, it soon became red and angry, blood and pus oozing from sores surrounding the crude letters. Michael was very ill, and if he had died as result of this misadventure, I shudder to think of the chaos that would ensue._  
   
_His mother and I are at a loss. My health is not what it once was. I fear the boy will be King sooner than he believes, and as it stands he is far from fit to rule. Please, my old friend, assist us. A physician will visit from Spain in the coming weeks, bringing with him new treatments that might aid in my condition. If at all possible, I wish to send Michael to you and for the duration of this treatment, in the hopes that your firm hand could guide him, as you have your own sons. My failings as a father should not translate to instability for my people. Any assistance you could provide would leave my family eternally in your debt._  
   
_Send word by return note as quickly as you are able. May God be with you, and with those you hold dear._  
  


Luke turns the parchment over in his fingers. He reads it twice, a frown tugging at his brow as his eyes travel over the neat cursive for the second time. He looks up at his father and asks, “What does this mean? Scarred his precious flesh?”  
   
The King’s eyes narrow, a disapproving scowl down-turning the corners of his mouth. “A tattoo. Like a common sailor. On a prince, can you imagine?”  
   
Luke catches the inside of his cheek between his molars. He hasn’t ever seen one, but they’ve been described to him. They sound horrific. He can’t fathom the pain – or the humiliation, walking around through life with black ink etched into your skin; the mark of the lowest class permanently ascribed. “And he nearly died from it?”  
   
“I know only what you do,” the King says, gesturing towards the letter in Luke’s hands. “Do you remember him?”  
   
“Him, being Michael? No. Have we met?”  
   
“When you were very young. His father is an old companion, from our youth. They came to stay, years ago. Michael was … well. His father called him  _spirited_ , as you read. I called him impudent. Always running about, taunting the servants, getting himself into all sorts of trouble. It seems not much has changed.” The King stands, and heaves a heavy sigh. He stares out the window, and Luke watches him closely.  
   
Sometimes, it feels as if Luke barely knows his father. One thing he does know, is how to sense when his father isn’t finished speaking and is merely pausing for emphasis between sentences. It’s never a good idea to interrupt this performance, so Luke keeps his questions to himself for the moment.  
   
“I suppose it’s no wonder he turned out this way, with his mother practically a commoner. A Lord’s daughter, of all things. Heaven have mercy on them. She found the boy amusing.”  
   
On principle, Luke does not share his father’s distain for the peerage class, but does not dare say so. When he’s sure his father’s speech has ended, he asks, “Is he going to come here again, then?”  
   
“Of course I would prefer he didn’t, but I will not refuse an old friend in a time of crisis. He is too ill, at the moment, to deal with his son. So the burden falls to us.”  
   
Luke wrinkles up his nose. “Why?”  
   
A swift glare, and shame burns in Luke’s chest. He drops his gaze to the floor.  
   
“Because we are charitable,” his father intones. Luke should not have had to ask. “Further, our relationship with Moravia will need to be maintained. If the boy becomes King in his present state, I cannot fathom the disaster. His kingdom has been an ally to us these many years. Favors must be returned.”  
   
“What are you asking of me?”  
   
“I will need your help. Benjamin has his duties to the kingdom as the heir apparent, and Jack will not return from France for several weeks. You will be responsible for our charge when he arrives. Keep him out of trouble.”  
   
“Is he dangerous?” Luke worries. It sounds a formidable task, considering especially this boy is older than him, although only by one year. Luke is too meek to effectively give orders; his brothers always teased him for it.  
   
“Hardly,” the King scoffs. “He is a deviant, surely, but harmless. He simply needs guidance. He needs to understand what is soon to be expected of him, when his father is no longer with us. You are a good son and will someday be a good man, Luke. You understand tradition, respect, nobility.”  
   
Luke would like to argue. To remind his father that he has never been in charge of anything before; certainly not a rebellious teenage prince who leaves his castle in the middle of the night to have himself tattooed by criminals. He does not say anything. If it were his mother, he might. She allows him to speak freely. But he doesn’t argue with his father. No one argues with the King. “I shall do my best, sir.”  
   
“Indeed you will.”  
   
*           *           *  
   
“I thought these might be suitable, sir.” Thomas opens a velvet box to reveal gold cufflinks.  
   
Glancing at them, Luke recognizes them as one of his better sets, usually reserved for balls or visits from the nobility. He would like to say that he doesn’t think the arrival of a deviant warrants such spectacle and ceremony. But even to his valet, he wouldn’t say it out loud. Their guest is royalty, regardless of the way he’s chosen to embarrass his family.  
   
“An excellent choice, as always,” Luke compliments.  
   
Thomas offers him an appreciative nod, and then goes about securing the links on the cuffs of Luke’s shirt.  
   
Luke stares at himself in the mirror and tries to imagine hiding a tattoo underneath his silken shirt and heavily embroidered jacket. The idea is too ridiculous. If he’d dreamt it up, Luke might wonder if what he’d eaten the night before had gone off.  
   
“I’ve polished all of your crowns, sir, so that you could choose for yourself.” Thomas moves to the case under the window where they’re kept and unlocks it.  
   
Again, Luke holds in a nasty retort. “I’m expected to wear a crown?”  
   
“The King wants a full compliment. All the trimmings. He is a prince, after all.”  
   
“The smallest one, then. The silver, with the rubies.”  
   
“Silver with … gold cufflinks?” Thomas sounds hesitant; almost afraid to contradict Luke. He’s been with Luke for years, and is almost never nervous with him as some of the other servants are. Luke must be projecting a far stormier temperament than he thought.  
   
There’s a soft knock at the door, and his mother’s voice calls, “Are you dressed?”  
   
“Yes,” Luke answers, and she enters, draped in purple and beads and golden trim as if her portrait were being painted.  
   
“Could you leave us, Thomas?”  
   
Thomas nods his head respectfully, gathers Luke’s nightclothes, and closes the door behind himself on his way out.  
   
“You look very handsome,” she says, joining Luke to look in the mirror. She brushes the fabric on his shoulders but there is no dust or lint left to brush off. Thomas is impeccable.  
   
“What am I supposed to do with him?” Luke asks, meeting his mother’s eyes in the mirror. They’re the same shade of blue as his.  
   
“With Thomas?” She smiles, making a joke.  
   
“With Michael.”  
   
“You will address him properly unless he asks you to call him by name,” she scolds, but gently. “And you’ll just keep an eye on him. He isn’t a wild animal, my darling.”  
   
“He’s a criminal,” Luke grumbles.  
   
“He is a young man whose life has not been as easy as yours. His father has been ill many times. He has lived since he was a child with the knowledge that he might any day become King, far before he’s ready for it. Benjamin always knew that he would reach adulthood before he took control, and he knew that he would have the support of his family and the court. The young prince of Moravia did not have those luxuries.”  
   
“Is there discord within the court?”  
   
His mother’s smile is grim and sympathetic. “Much. But there’s not time for all that now. What are we going to put on your head?”  
   
“You’re not in your finest,” Luke points out, glancing up at his mother’s headdress. It’s pretty, but she has far nicer.  
   
“Don’t be impertinent,” she reprimands. Her shoes click on the stone floor as she walks to the case, and her fingers lightly trail over the options. She selects one, golden and heavily jeweled, with a red velvet insert. She places it on his head, and then fixes his hair around it. “There. Lovely.”  
   
“It’s a lot, for a boy who’s been banished for breaking the law.” Luke would never speak in this manor to anyone expect his mother or his elder brother Jack. Usually, he wouldn’t speak this way at all, even to them. He resents everything about the situation.  
   
“Nothing he has done is against the law, nor has he been banished. Your father will not approve of this attitude, I suggest you adjust it before we go down.”  
   
She moves toward the door, and then stops, and softly adds, “I know you miss Jack. The arrival of our guest might do you well. Give you someone your own age to talk to.”  
   
Luke squeezes his teeth together.  
   
“And he’ll be home soon enough.”  
   
“For a time. And then he’ll be gone forever.”  
   
“Not forever, my angel.” She walks back, and takes his face in her hands. “He won’t be here, but that does not mean you’ll never see him. You can visit.”  
   
“He’ll be in France. With her.”  
   
“And one day, not long from now, we will find you someone as well. You’ll see.” She pats his cheek comfortingly, and leaves him alone with his reflection in the ornate bronze mirror.  
   
She’s wrong, about what she thinks is upsetting him. He isn’t jealous of Jack, he misses his brother. Jack was his confidant, his best friend, and now he’s in France courting his future bride, and once they’re wed, Jack will live with her in her castle and Luke will rarely see him. Nothing will be the same as it was. It’s the same fate that awaits Luke. The daughter of a noble will be assigned to him, and he’ll only be given a small amount of choice in the matter. He’ll simply disappear, into someone else’s life.  
   
*           *           *  
   
Luke descends the long, stone staircase, with his hand skimming the bannister. Rings glint at him off his fingers, reflected in the light from the torches on the walls. A footman stands, straight and motionless, on the landing where the stairs curve. He doesn’t move as Luke passes, and Luke is used to ignoring them. There was a footman, when Luke was a child, who used to give him rides on his back when no one was around and sneak him sweets from the kitchen. Luke doesn’t remember the man’s name, and hasn’t seen him since he was small. He assumes the man passed on. Unless they are dismissed, servants usually work at the castle for their whole lives.  
   
His mother and eldest brother are already in the grand foyer, their bodies almost dwarfed under the enormous chandelier and larger-than-life portraits that hang on the walls surrounding them. Flowers have been brought in from the gardens. Orange autumn blossoms, clippings from the willow trees, and tulips from the tropical house. Theirs is one of the largest in Europe, and the King always makes a show of their wealth and prosperity with flowers in the autumn and winter that wouldn’t grow out of doors. Ben smiles at Luke as he joins them, but only briefly. His expression fades to stoic as their father makes his entrance, flanked by the steward, his own valet, and several more footman in ceremonial dress.  
   
“His procession has nearly arrived, Your Grace. We received word by messenger moments ago.”  
   
“Excellent,” the King answers. “The prince will be tired, it is not a short journey. See that the kitchens are prepared to satisfy his appetite until the feast this evening.”  
   
“We’ve put him in the St. Stephen suite, Mrs. Adley had it sorted this morning. I hope that’s agreeable.”  
   
“Yes, he’ll be quite comfortable there.” The King’s voice is dismissive, and the steward understands their conversation has finished. He bows his way out of the King’s path, and busies himself with arranging the staff that bustle in to stand, silently, and look on as their guest and his own servants arrive.  
   
“Did you hear he has a tattoo?” Luke whispers to Ben, as their father addresses the head footman, James.  
   
“I’ve heard significantly more than that,” Ben whispers back, but does not elaborate.  
   
He always knows so many things. As the heir, he has been allowed to travel, to sit in on court proceedings, to stay after dinner while the brandy is served and the men talk, long after Luke and Jack were always sent to bed. Ben has always been the heir first, and anything else second. He is Luke’s brother but he takes his duties seriously and he rarely indulges in gossip. He’ll be a great ruler. He’s been groomed for it from birth. Luke and Jack have existed instead on the periphery of their father’s attention.  
   
The sound of carriages on the cobblestones outside alerts the arrival, and the doors are pulled open. Luke was expecting an excessive procession, the likes of which is usual for their guests, but there are only three carriages. The one in the middle is only slightly bigger than the other two, and trimmed with gold but far more understated than the carriages Luke’s father rides in. The three coachmen stall the horses in unison and step down from their seats, and open the doors on the first two coaches. From the first carriage a young man emerges, maybe older than Luke but not by much. Sand-colored curls poke out from under his hat, and his coat indicates prominence but not nobility. Luke assumes this man is the prince’s valet. Thomas has never been dressed in such a stately fashion, but Thomas has never traveled anywhere, because Luke has never travelled anywhere.  
   
From the middle carriage, with the help of the coachman, a boy about Luke’s age steps out into the mid-morning sunlight. It catches on his dark golden hair. His dress is far more casual than the way Luke and his family look, and Luke instantly feels he was right to wonder if they were overdoing everything with such a grand welcome. Slowly, the prince and his man walk up the steps and through the doors. The prince is tall; significantly taller than Ben although, Luke notes with just a hint of satisfaction, not quite as tall as Luke himself. His legs are long and his shoulders are narrow, and his stride is elegant in a way that looks practiced. Still, there is an unassuming quality to him that Luke can’t quite identify. He’s large, but he seems small somehow. Like maybe hardship has left him humble.  
   
“Your Highness,” the King greets, his arms opening, a gesture that is meant to both welcome and intimidate. Luke’s father is a master in the art of being hospitable, while still communicating his authority.  
   
“Michael,” the boy corrects.  
   
Luke’s breath catches. His father will not be pleased with the response.  
   
As expected, something hardens behind the King’s eyes, although he nearly hides it. Tersely, but still polite, he replies, “That would not be proper. I trust your journey was not too arduous?”  
   
“I suppose,” Michael answers.  
   
“Excellent. Allow me to introduce Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. And these are two of my sons. Prince Benjamin, my heir. And Prince Luke, the youngest of our small family.”  
   
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Ben says, regal and perfectly poised as he always is.  
   
“Likewise,” Michael returns, but it’s dull, and listless.  
   
He seems despondent, sullen almost, and Luke recognizes that it wasn’t humility he sensed in Michael a moment ago. It was unhappiness. As he turns to Luke, green eyes flash in the flicker from the candles, and when he smiles there is no joy behind it. It’s cold, almost a sneer. Luke greets their guest as he has been taught, but he is not nearly as skilled as his father when it comes to masking distaste.  
   
“Are we going to be friends?” Michael asks him. It is a taunt, rather than a genuine invitation.  
   
*           *           *


	2. Anthurium

Michael’s valet unloads the cases from the carriages, with the help of a small group of footmen, while the King leads his family and their new addition on a small tour. He shows Michael the great library, the dining room, the enormous ballroom, and the sitting parlor where they meet before and after dinner. The Queen explains the history of the castle, and Michael is at least polite enough to nod and feign interest, although it looks to Luke as if he could not care less to hear about the architect who designed the arched ceiling of the ballroom in the 15th century.  
   
Luke hangs a few yards back with his brother, and quietly they discuss their guest. “He doesn’t seem to care much for deportment.”  
   
“He certainly doesn’t. Although there are other important things.”  
   
“While you’re addressing the king of a foreign nation, who has invited you to stay in his home?” Luke is skeptical that Ben really believes it.  
   
“I suppose not. But Father can handle himself.”  
   
“Do you know that he’s put me in charge of all this?” Luke knows how pitiful he sounds, complaining before the task has even begun. “It’s my responsibility to make sure this boy learns how to be a proper king, when  _I’ve_  never even learned those things. If he returns to his kingdom and is a terrible ruler, it’s my head on the chopping block.”  
   
“Maybe if you’re kind to him, he’ll only throw you in a dungeon for the rest of your life instead of executing you,” Ben jokes with a smile that makes Luke feel even more ridiculous for being so disconcerted.  
   
“I’m not suggesting he’ll have me executed.”  
   
“I know that. Calm down, I’m sure you aren’t really in charge of it, Father just wants you to keep the boy company since you’re the same age. He is alone in a foreign land, he needs you as a companion, not a teacher.”  
   
“You heard what he said in the hall. I doubt he honestly wants to be friends.”  
   
“Be kind anyway. Perhaps he’ll change his mind.”  
   
Because he’s tired of listening to himself whine, Luke doesn’t respond. But he isn’t optimistic.  
   
The tour ends in the study. A petite maid with messy hair and soot on her cheek is lighting the fire as they walk in, and her face goes white as a sheet when she seems them. She rushes to gather her brush and cloth amongst a litany of panicked apologies. The King ignores her, and shows Michael their Gutenberg Bible, proudly displayed under glass at the end of the room.  
   
“Please don’t apologize,” Ben says kindly to the frantic maid. “You had no way of knowing we would be coming here, we should have sent word with a footman.”  
   
“Sir, I – I mean, Your Majesty, I’m – I am terribly sorry,” she stutters, unable to make eye contact with any of them, and she trips over her apron as she hurries out of the room.  
   
“You’d better tell Mrs. Prescott to reassure that girl she won’t be sacked,” Ben says to Luke, a sympathetic frown turning down his mouth.  
   
“Look at the mess she left.” Luke gestures to the scattered ashes on the hearth that she didn’t sweep up in her haste to leave them. “Perhaps she should be.”  
   
“It wasn’t her fault, we startled her.” Ben turns his frown to Luke, and it morphs from sympathetic to disapproving. “You’re in a state today.”  
   
“I must be off now,” the Queen announces. She takes Michael’s hand, warm and motherly. “It was lovely to meet you, Michael.”  
   
“And you, Your Majesty,” Michael returns. So far, she is the only one he seems to like. Or perhaps he just knows better than to disrespect a queen in front of her husband and sons.  
   
“Please call me Elizabeth. If we are to cohabitate for the next few months, we can do away with formalities.” She takes Ben’s arm as she walks toward the door, and leads him out with her. An understanding smile is aimed at Luke, and then they’re both gone.  
   
“Anything that you require, please do not hesitate,” the King says. “Your parents have entrusted us with …” he pauses, just for a moment, and then continues, “… with your care, while your father recuperates.”  
   
“It isn’t necessary for you to do that,” Michael says.  
   
He is brash and far too confident, touching on discourteous, and it makes Luke nervous to hear someone speak to his father this way. He’s too familiar with the King’s tenuous grip on his temper. And it feels wrong, for a near stranger to be addressing him so casually.  
   
“It is our sincere hope that you enjoy your stay in this castle – ”  
   
“No,” Michael interrupts. “I mean it isn’t necessary for you to pretend I’m here on a holiday.”  
   
The King looks flustered, and Luke is entirely unfamiliar with the expression on his father’s face. Sounding reluctant, he says, “Alright. Yes, you have been placed in our charge in the hopes that you might learn to conduct yourself in a manner that suits the throne you might soon inherit. If your father’s health does not improve.”  
   
“So when does the training begin? Will I have to pass a test?”  
   
With narrowed eyes, the King’s voice goes hard and cold. He stares into the fire as he speaks, no longer gracing Michael with the courtesy of eye contact. Michael has tested the last of his patience. “You will start by observing my sons. They have been brought up to understand how to behave properly in all situations. They would never dream of leaving the grounds in the dead of night to have themselves disfigured in the village. I presume you are also aware that we know of the incident that resulted in your being here.”  
   
“Among other things,” Michael mutters, under his breath. Luke doesn’t think his father hears it.  
   
“Know that such activity will not be tolerated here,” the King warns. He looks back at Michael, the fire from the hearth now in his eyes as well. “You will not leave the grounds unless you are granted permission to do so. You will learn how to behave as a royal should. You  _will_  become the ruler your people deserve. These are not options. Moravia has seen a reign of peace under your father, which has brought stability to the continent. I will not have our world thrown into chaos because you fail to understand the seriousness of the inheritance you were granted by our Lord.”  
   
Michael’s jaw is set, clenched, but he doesn’t speak back. Luke’s eyes dart back and forth between them, his heart beating into his throat, nearly expecting one of them to start swinging their fists.  
   
“Luke, you will show the young prince to his rooms,” the King commands, and with a flip of his long coat, he storms out of the room and leaves them alone.  
   
Michael’s gaze moves to Luke, and his face relaxes visibly. The anger fades, and his lips curve into a small smile. “He seems nice.”  
   
Luke glares but keeps his voice even. “He is a king. If I were addressing your father, I would show him the respect he is due.”  
   
“My father is going to die,” Michael replies, unfeelingly. “Soon.”  
   
“You can’t know that.”  
   
“I can’t believe he’s held on for this long. Maybe he clings to life because he knows what a disaster I’ll be after he’s gone.”  
   
“Do you care so little about him?”  
   
“An honest answer to that question would take more time than you’d like.”  
   
Luke looks at him, trying to work out in his head what to make of this person, and what to say next. He finds himself speechless, and so Michael breaks the silence instead.  
   
“So you’re Luke. I’ll call you Your Majesty if you want, although that’s tiresome.”  
   
Still partially stunned, Luke answers, “Luke is fine.”  
   
“It’s an ancient name. Hebrew.”  
   
“So is yours.”  
   
“Bringer of light. Isn’t that what it means?”  
   
“No. It only means light. You’re thinking of Lucifer.”  
   
“Oh, was I? My mistake,” Michael muses, but it’s a show. Luke can tell it wasn’t a mistake at all.  
   
Luke doesn’t know how to react, so he says, “I’ll show you to your rooms.”  
   
He walks out without bothering to check that Michael is following him. Footsteps do trail after him, and they climb the stairs in silence. The hallway is long, and it seems longer as they walk, unspeaking, with Luke’s mind bouncing chaotically from one thought to the next and trying to resist the urge to turn his head and look at Michael. He had been dreading this even before Michael arrived, and now Luke’s worries have been confirmed but in ways he couldn’t have expected. He had a picture in his head of a criminal, hardened and cruel and brave. Instead, Michael is mostly confusing.  
   
The St. Stephen suite is the largest guest suite in the castle. It has four rooms and a large balcony that overlooks the expansive gardens. The bed is enormous, bigger than Luke’s, and the view is much nicer as well. Detailed paintings of angels and clouds and beautiful women cover the ceiling. The drapes and bed-dressings are made of silk from the Orient, and rubies sparkle on the handles of the bureau. The suite is meant to impress, to display their wealth to whomever the King might deem important enough to inhabit it. Luke can only feel superior in that the personal library is small; much smaller than the one off Luke’s own bedroom. In his mind, he makes a rude assumption that this boy probably doesn’t like to read anyway.  
   
Michael whistles, and his voice is mocking as he says, “How elegant.”  
   
“You could sleep in the stables with your horses, if you don’t feel worthy of these arrangements,” Luke tells him.  
   
Michael blinks at him, and then a smile that almost looks genuine pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Was that a joke?”  
   
“I wasn’t being serious, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
   
Michael smirks at him, and then goes over to the bed. He slowly trails his fingers along the silk blankets. Suddenly, discomfort creeps up under Luke’s skin. A moment ago this felt like an empty guest suite and now it feels like someone else’s bedroom, and that it’s no longer appropriate for Luke to be here.  
   
“Your man should be up soon with your cases. There is a bell, if there’s anything else you need.” Luke indicates a velvet rope hanging from the ceiling, but Michael looks at him instead of in the direction Luke is pointing.  
   
“I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable.” His tone balances on a line between derisive and sincere.  
   
Luke finds it unnerving. “Well. Good. I’ll see you later, then. For dinner.”  
   
He turns to go, and is closing the door behind himself when he hears Michael’s voice calling, “Until then, Lucifer.”  
   
It irritates like stinging nettles, and Luke pulls the door shut a little harder than he meant to.  
   
*           *           *  
   
Luke politely refuses the jewels that Thomas brings out as he’s dressing for dinner. Thomas doesn’t insist, which mean’s it wasn’t an order from Luke’s father that they be decorated as if for a ball instead of an evening with their family. Luke turned the finery down on purpose, to see. He isn’t surprised his father has lowered his expectations since Michael arrived this morning. If Luke had opened his home to a guest and they had been so disdainful, he too would feel it was a waste to put on such a show.  
   
Neither Ben nor Michael is in the parlor when Luke enters it. The fire is roaring, and the King is standing with one gloved hand on the mantle, sipping from a crystal glass. His mother looks up when Luke walks in, the footman at the door formerly announcing his arrival. She smiles at him, the orange light from the flames dancing on her face, and pats the sofa next to her. Luke sits with her, and she takes his hands.  
   
“You look wonderful,” she tells him.  
   
“You don’t need to say that every time.”  
   
“Of course I do.” She always has, every evening since before Luke can remember. Her fingers squeeze around his as she anxiously asks, “How is the prince?”  
   
The King makes an impatient sound, and moves away from them, toward the desk at the other end of the room so he doesn’t have to listen to their conversation.  
   
“He isn’t very nice.”  
   
“His father may be dying,” she reminds him.  
   
“I know that. He doesn’t seem to care about it.”  
   
“Of course he cares. People react to grief in different ways.”  
   
“Is that the real reason he’s here?” Luke questions. “The note from his father said he wanted us to teach Michael how to be a ruler, but is it really because their King is going to die and didn’t want his son around to watch?”  
   
She pats his hand, and answers, “I’m afraid I don’t know.”  
   
“His Royal Highness, Prince Michael of Moravia,” the footman announces loudly.  
   
Luke and his mother both look up. The curly-headed man from the first carriage is with him. Out of the corner of his eye, Luke notices that the King only looks after a few long moments of staring into his glass, so as not to appear eager. Luke can already sense it’s going to be a constant battle for dominance between the two of them, and he is going to dislike every minute of it.  
   
Michael is in checkered pants, leather boots with a low heel, and a velvet blue waistcoat and jacket. His dark blond hair is swept to the side over his forehead, and he leaves a beaver skin hat on a sideboard near the door when he sees Luke and his father have bare heads.  
   
“You look wonderful,” Luke’s mother says to Michael, and Luke bites the inside of his bottom lip and internally chastises himself for the twinge of jealousy.  
   
“Thank you,” Michael answers. “This is Ashton, my valet.”  
   
“How lovely to meet you,” the Queen says graciously. “It’s so kind of you to come all this way.”  
   
“Perhaps he could see if the footmen need any help with serving this evening,” the King suggests, dismissively. It’s only to get rid of Michael’s servant. The footmen never require help serving. There are dozens of them, and they only have a single guest for dinner.  
   
Ashton and Michael exchange a brief glance, in which Michael’s lips purse like he’s trying not to laugh, and then Ashton nods at both of Luke’s parents and disappears out the way he came.  
   
“Please, help yourself to drink and then sit with us.” The Queen holds her hand out, pointing Michael in the direction of the brandy and glassware on a table behind them.  
   
Michael does as he’s told, and settles in a burgundy chair to Luke’s left.  
   
“Is the room to your liking?”  
   
“It’s perfect. I will be more than comfortable.”  
   
Ben bustles into the room, and interrupts before the footman can announce him. “Apologies, my collar ripped as I was dressing.”  
   
James is just behind him, to announce that the dining room is ready for them to move into it. It’s Luke’s second favorite room in the castle, after the great library. It’s cavernous, and the table is as long as a field, but when it’s just his family and they all sit at one end, it still feels cozy. Luke still enjoys it, but these last few weeks it’s felt so different without Jack. And now with the addition of a person Luke so far doesn’t care for, it feels even further from the happy memories of his childhood.  
   
“Perhaps you could take Michael to the glasshouse in the morning,” the Queen suggests.  
  
“Is that how you’ve managed to have tropical flowers everywhere?” Michael asks. “There are species in my rooms that I’ve never seen before.”  
  
“My husband is very proud of his collection. We have been blessed to acquire seeds from every corner of the world. Last year an expedition to the south of Africa brought us bulbs we had never encountered before. Luke will have to show you.”  
  
“If you’d like,” Luke tells Michael, carefully keeping his tone amiable.  
  
“I’d love it.” Michael’s grin is accompanied by a glint in his eyes that irritates Luke because he can’t read it.  
  
He can’t read anything about Michael. There is too much contradiction. It’s only been a single day and Luke has already grown tired of never knowing whether he’s being made fun of. Every word that comes out of Michael’s mouth seems caught right between taunting and genuine, and Luke can never tell which it is.  
   
*           *           *


	3. Peony

Luke wakes to pale November sunlight filtering through the curtains and falling across his face. He stretches, and then rolls onto the right side of his body, too warm and content to consider getting up just yet. He floats halfway between asleep and awake for long enough that by the time his opens his eyes again, the sunbeams have moved to his shoulder. Reluctantly leaving the cozy nest of blankets, he climbs out of his bed and goes to the window, pulling back the curtains to look at the low sun and the long shadows it cases on the grounds below. There are groundskeepers wrapping the cedar hedges in sheets of burlap, to protect them from the coming winter.  
   
He squints back at the sun, turned to a blurry yellow ball in the early morning haze. Michael’s room is a floor above Luke’s but it faces in the same direction, and Luke wonders if Michael is awake yet, maybe looking out at the same view. He feels badly, if only a little, about Michael’s first day in the castle. Michael wasn’t a nice presence in their home, but he did travel alone to a new land and he is among strangers in a strange place. Luke has never done anything like that. He has never so much as left the castle grounds, let along travel on his own to a foreign place. A small part of Luke secretly longs for such adventure, but most of him knows he’d be far too nervous to attempt it. He should have been more understanding. He rings the bell for Thomas, endeavoring to be kinder today.  
   
It takes a while to track Michael down. Luke checks the sitting room and the parlor and doesn’t find him, and wanders the halls asking passing maids and footmen who answer meekly that they haven’t seen him. Eventually, Luke finds him outside, seated at a small table among the empty flower beds that come the spring will be bursting with blossoms. It’s chilly, and Luke draws his coat tighter around his shoulders as he approaches. There is another person seated with Michael, and as Luke gets closer he recognizes Michael’s valet. He frowns to himself in confusion and watches them from a distance for just a few moments. Michael is leaned over the table with a quill, scribbling onto a piece of parchment. Across from him, the valet is chatting, smiling, and Michael appears to be answering back. It all looks so casual, similar to the way Luke would converse with his brothers if they were alone, and Luke has never behaved that way with his own valet. Michael and his servant almost look as though they’re friends.  
   
When Luke gets close enough, the valet notices him and leaps up out of the chair as if he’s been stuck with a hot poker. He bows from the waist, and greets Luke with a quiet, respectful, “Your Highness.”  
   
“Good morning,” Luke greets politely.  
   
Michael glances over his shoulder at Luke, sighs, and then says to his valet, “You don’t have to do that.”  
   
The valet looks back and forth between Michael and Luke, clearly conflicted.  
   
Noticing, Michael looks at Luke again, sounding bored as he confirms, “You don’t need him to do that, right?”  
   
Luke doesn’t know what to say either. It’s clearly customary for a servant, it’s proper behavior that Luke’s father would certainly demand, but Michael clearly expects Luke to disregard this. Luke is here with the intention of getting along better than they did yesterday. He doesn’t want to begin by annoying Michael, so he gestures to the chair the valet had been sitting in, and invites, “Please.”  
   
“I should polish the shoes you wanted to wear this evening,” the valet says instead, and with another bow he excuses himself and heads back to the castle, although he walks in the direction of the servants’ entrance behind the kitchens.  
   
“He is  _my_  man, you know,” Michael says in a tired voice, picking up the quill again and resuming his writing. “He doesn’t need to take orders from you.”  
   
“I didn’t order him anything!” Luke protests. “I said he should sit!”  
   
“You weren’t very convincing.”  
   
An angry reply is on the tip of Luke’s tongue, but he swallows it, and tensely asks, “Could I join you?”  
   
“If you wish.”  
   
Luke sits, and pointedly doesn’t look at the parchment Michael is scrawling on. Calmly, he explains, “I was taught to allow the servants to go about their duties and customs and not interfere with them. My mother always said it puts them in an unfair position, because they might get in trouble downstairs if they behave informally, even if you asked them to. Our heads of house are very strict.”  
   
“I suppose,” Michael muses, without looking up. “I’ve always tried to treat them like family. I have no siblings, so if not for the servants I’d have no one to talk to.”  
   
“I don’t think we treat ours unkindly.”  
   
“I’m sure you don’t.”  
   
“What’s his name?” Luke asks about the valet. “I know you told us, but I can’t remember.”  
   
“Ashton. And he  _is_  my friend. It doesn’t matter to me if you don’t approve of it.”  
   
“I never said I don’t approve. It’s different, to how we do things here, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”  
   
Finally, Michael looks up, and his eyes are just barely narrowed, as if he’s trying to read something on Luke’s face. “Do you have any friends, here?”  
   
The implication is clear – Michael expects Luke to admit that he doesn’t. It’s only almost the reality. Luke tells him, “There is a boy about our age, who works in the stables. His name is Calum. I love to ride, so he and I have been friends since we were small.”  
   
It is a stretched truth. Luke has certainly always been friendly with Calum, but outright friends is reaching a touch farther than what is accurate. The look on Michael’s face seems to suggest he knows it.  
   
It makes Luke uncomfortable, being scrutinized so closely, so he asks, “What are you writing? If you don’t mind saying.”  
   
“A letter to my mother. To let her know I’ve arrived.” Michael signs it and puts the quill back into the ink pot. He holds the parchment up, blowing on it gently as the ink dries.  
   
“Ask a footman to give it to Mrs. Adley when you go back inside, she’ll see that it’s posted.”  
   
“Maybe I’ll break one of my horses out of the stables and deliver it myself. It’s only eight days journey.”  
   
Luke tries to keep his mouth from falling open. “You spent eight days in a carriage?”  
   
“How far away did you think Moravia was?”  
   
“Not that far. What did you do for all that time?”  
   
“Not very much. Talked with Ashton, mostly. Played card games. Read books.”  
   
“Ashton rode with you? When you arrived he was in a different carriage.”  
   
“For appearances. We would have lost our minds in solitude for all that time.”  
   
Luke doesn’t know how to respond. He has more questions, but worries about annoying Michael and severing the tenuous truce they seem to have momentarily reached.  
   
Michael folds up the parchment and tucks it into his pocket. He pours a small amount of leftover ink into the soil, and then wraps the pot and quill up in a cloth and puts them into a different pocket, inside his coat. “Did you want to show me the glasshouse? Like Elizabeth suggested last night?”  
   
For just a breath, Luke bristles at hearing his mother addressed so informally, but then he recalls she asked Michael to call her by name. “If you’d like. She was trying to find us something to talk about, but it’s alright if you aren’t interested.”  
   
“I’m interested.” Michael stands. “Lead the way, Lucifer.”  
   
“Don’t call me that,” Luke says harshly, and then reigns his temper back in quickly enough to add, “Please.”  
   
Michael’s eyes twinkle.  
   
At the West end of the castle, the glass walls and cavernous ceiling of the tropical house rise several stories into the sky. Gardeners bustle about as Luke leads Michael into it, all of them averting their gaze and going quietly about their work. Michael notices it, and Luke notices the frown on his face. There are hundreds of plant species growing in the soft, fertile soil and thick, moist air. Enormous palm fronds reach down from the ceiling, and ferns and rubbery, brightly colored leaves cover the floors. On tables are vast wooden beds, overflowing with more varieties of flowers than Luke has ever been able to keep straight in his head. There is a registry, in a large bound book encased in glass. The head gardener keeps the key to it, and he archives every new plant they receive, sketching the leaves and blooms and recording instructions for its care.  
   
Michael doesn’t speak, but his eyes are wide as he wanders slowly through, reaching up to touch leaves that are brilliantly green and longer than three grown men laid feet-to-head. There is a quiet reverence in the way his fingers run over them, and Luke knows that exact feeling. He spends hours here, sometimes, breathing in the warm air and imagining all the magical faraway places these plants were brought from, and the adventurous men who travelled there and back.  
   
“I’ve never seen plants from Africa before,” Michael says, as his hands touch the impossibly smooth trunk of a tree with leaves that look like giant flakes of snow.  
   
“I think that one is from the New World, although I don’t know where. Some place with nothing but sand and sun and ocean.” Pointing to a flower bed across the room, with freshly turned soil, Luke continues, “Those were the African flowers my mother mentioned. They’re only blubs right now, they’ll bloom in the spring and then they’ll be planted outside.”  
   
Michael goes to the wooden bed, picking up the page of instructions left behind by a gardener and reading it. “Amaryllis.”  
   
“The first of their kind in Europe,” Luke tells him. “We don’t know what they’ll look like yet, but the man who brought them to my father says they’re beautiful.”  
   
“Will you all be in here, in the spring?” Michael asks, his lips curling back into a smile. “Gathered around this table all day long, waiting for them to pop up?”  
   
“Why do you do that?” Luke sighs in exasperation and wonders if he’s wasting his time, trying to mend fences with a person who has no desire for an amicable relationship.  
   
“Do what?”  
   
“Make everything into a joke. We had a rocky beginning but I am  _trying_  to be nice to you right now, and you’re still making fun of me.”  
   
For a moment, Michael pauses, and Luke braces himself for another rude comment. But then instead, Michael looks at him, just long enough to blink twice, and then turns his gaze back to the plants and says, “Sorry.”  
   
It sounds suspiciously sincere and leaves Luke feeling unsettled. He wasn’t expecting that, and isn’t sure what to make it of.  
   
“Could I see the tattoo?” Luke asks. He’s never seen one in person before. He’s only heard of them, in stories from those who’ve been allowed to leave the castle and chance upon a sailor, or a criminal. Luke has never been allowed to leave, so he’s never chanced upon either. The stable boy has a relative who was discharged from the Royal Navy and now makes his living on a private merchant schooner, and says the man is covered in ink from head to foot.  
   
Michael’s left eyebrow raises. With a sly grin, he asks, “Which one?”  
   
“I thought there was only one. The one your father found, the one that sent you here.”  
   
“The infected one, then.” Michael rolls his sleeve up over his elbow, wincing as it passes along his arm. He holds it out for Luke to see – red, angry flesh, still swollen around words scrawled in black that Luke isn’t able to make out. The sight of it makes Luke’s stomach churn.   
   
“What does it say?”  
   
“ _To the moon_. It will be legible once the swelling goes down.”  
   
“What does that mean?”  
   
“That I’d like to go to the moon,” Michael answers simply, as if Luke should have guessed that on his own.  
   
Luke frowns. “The one in the sky?”  
   
“Which else?”  
   
“How on earth would you get up there?”  
   
“I  _wouldn’t_.” Michael pulls his sleeve back down. “It isn’t possible, that’s entirely the point.”  
   
Luke doesn’t understand, but doesn’t say so. “How many more do you have?”  
   
Michael laughs softly. “You have a lot of questions.”  
   
“I’m sorry.”  
   
“Six.”  
   
“ _Six_?” Luke repeats. “And your father doesn’t know about the others?”  
   
“Well he doesn’t strip me down to nothing and examine me at the end of every day. The others I managed to keep hidden because they healed like they were supposed to. This one didn’t. When it started to smell and ooze through my shirt, he took notice.”  
   
Luke’s stomach turns over on itself again. “Does it hurt a lot? Having it done, I mean?”  
   
“I suppose so.”  
   
“So why do it?”  
   
Michel often looks at Luke as if he isn’t sure what to say, but is amused by his bewilderment. “Haven’t you ever done something that hurt?”  
   
“Not on purpose.”  
   
“Maybe we should get you one. You might like it.”  
   
Luke shudders. “No thank you. Anyway, I’d have to leave for that, and I can’t leave.”  
   
"You've really never left? Never gone outside? In your whole life?"  
   
Luke bristles; offended by the accusation. “I’ve been outside, I’m not a shut-in. We were outside just a moment ago. We have grounds, a forest. Several small lakes, and paths between them. I’ve just never been beyond the walls.”  
   
“You have no idea how the people live.” Michael exhales through his nose. “It isn’t like us.”  
   
“I know it isn’t.” Luke resents the insinuation that simply because he’s never walked among the peasants as Michael has, he doesn’t know anything at all.  
   
“Aren’t you curious?”  
   
“Not really. Perhaps a little. Not enough to sneak out, as you do.”  
   
“What if I went with you?”  
   
Luke pauses. “Have you done it already? Here, I mean? Last night?”  
   
Michael grins. “Yes.”  
   
“How did you get out without anyone seeing you?”  
   
“Well I didn’t go out the front door. Or any door, for that matter.”  
   
Luke’s mouth falls open as he understands what Michael is insinuating. “It’s at least thirty feet to the ground! How did you make it down?”  
   
“It’s not as hard as you think, if you know how. So? What do you say? Come with me next time.”  
   
“If we were caught, you would be sent back to your kingdom and I don’t know  _what_  my father would do with me but it wouldn’t be good.”  
   
“That is half the purpose of it. The risk makes it exciting.”  
   
“I don’t think I like that kind of excitement.”  
   
“What kind of excitement do you like, then?" Michael’s voice yet again is mocking. “Sewing? Reading all those dusty books in the great library? Practising your table manners?”  
   
Luke’s blood boils. For just a few moments, he’d been foolish enough to believe in time he could grow to be friends with this person. Now he sees his first instinct had been right all along. “You’re hopeless. I can see why your father sent you here, you would never do as a king. I just don’t know that there’s anything this place has to offer you. You might be a lost cause already.”  
   
Michael’s cheeks are pink and his voice is quietly aggressive. “Do you honestly enjoy grooming the horses with the stable boy and then never going anywhere on them? Never even dreaming of anything that exists beyond what you know? There is an entire world just past the walls of this castle. And you’ll never see it.”  
   
“I’ll never die from an infected tattoo!” Luke fires at him.  
   
“You’ll die from something. Don’t you want to live before that happens?”  
   
Luke stares into bright green eyes, and narrows his own. “You said, when you first got here, that the tattoos and the sneaking off weren’t the only reasons your father sent you away. You said it under your breath but I heard you. What did you mean by that? What is the other reason?”  
   
Michael smiles and it’s joyless. A scornful, almost cruel glint shines in his eyes. “You’re not ready for that secret yet, Lucifer.”  
   
Luke clenches his jaw, and his hands ball into fists. Fury burns in his chest. “I asked you not to call me that.”  
   
“And still I did. It seems your word is not law after all.” He’s ridiculing again, and Luke’s had enough this time.  
   
“I hope they have to cut your arm off,” he spits, and then he turns on his heel and storms off.   
   
“Would you hold my other hand while they did it?” Michael yells after him.  
   
Luke doesn’t bother with a retort.   
   
*           *           *


	4. Daisy

For weeks, Luke barely sees Michael outside of daily evening meals in the dining room. The night after their fight in the tropical house, Luke had been dreading dinner, where they would undoubtedly be asked what they got up to that day and Luke has never been any good at lying to his family. Michael, however, was apparently not affected by such an affliction. When asked, he spun the tale of a day spent touring the castle, and every evening since Michael has weaved an equally convincing but entirely untrue story. According to Michael, he and Luke have gone for many long rides on horseback, enjoyed the late autumn hunting season, assisted a gardener in planting the hyacinth bulbs, and so many games of chess in the library that Luke quickly lost count. In truth they haven’t done any of it, but the King and Queen seem to believe Michael’s stories, so Luke has kept quiet.  
   
He sees Michael during the day, from time to time, nearly always flanked by his curly-haired valet. More than once, Luke has watched the two of them from far enough away so as not to be detected, and it pains him to admit it even to himself but he is becoming increasingly jealous of the pair. They truly do seem to be friends – constantly talking and laughing in such an unsettlingly familiar way. It made Luke question the way he treats his own valet, but when he tried to behave more casually with Thomas, he just seemed confused and uncomfortable so Luke quickly ceased the experiment.  
   
Luke also watches with a sharp eye the way Michael treats the rest of the servants. Luke can’t say his own family treats their employees badly, because they don’t. His father is typically cold, as he is with nearly everyone, but his mother and Ben are warm and kind and accommodating. Luke takes note of his own behavior, and he too is respectful and generous when it is appropriate. But Michael out-does them all. Michael treats even the kitchen-maids as if they are familial relations. He thanks every member of staff for anything they do as if it were not a job they’re being paid for, but an unnecessary feat above and far beyond their duties. At first it seemed disingenuous to Luke, but after several weeks of observation, he is forced to draw the conclusion that Michael simply believes he is exceptionally blessed whenever anything is given to him. Luke isn’t sure whether to find it a happy or sad thought.  
   
The days begin to shorten as the month changes, and December ushers in cooler nights and frosted mornings. Luke awakens to pretty patterns of ice on his windows, and scullery maids become a more common fixture in all the main rooms as the fires need more frequent attending. Once again, Luke attempts to follow Michael’s example and engage in conversation with them, but they seem terrified when he does so Luke quickly abandons the endeavor and leaves them to their tasks.  
   
On a still, sunny Thursday afternoon, Luke tires of being inside and wrap himself in a heavy cloak and scarf before making his way to the stables behind the castle. He walks along the stone path, dipped toward the middle, where for centuries his ancestors have trodden on their way to the horses. The strong, familiar smell hits him well before he hears the animals. Cattle, goats, and sheep move slowly about their winter enclosures. When Luke reaches the horses, he notices the black ones that came with Michael’s cavalcade. In the next stalls, are the white-and-grey speckled horses Luke’s father has been breeding. At last Luke comes upon his own horse; a dark grey steed with a long white mane and piercing, steely blue eyes.  
   
“Hello, Merlin.” Luke reaches out to stroke the nose of his horse, brushing the mane back away from his eyes. Merlin tilts his face up into Luke’s touch. “Should we go for a ride?”  
   
Expectedly the horse answers with nothing but eye-contact.  
   
“Calum?” Luke calls. He’s not sure Calum is here, but he announces his presence anyway, not wanting to startle anyone.  
   
“Your Majesty?” Calum’s voice answers. He emerges from a stall, covered in straw and dirt. Hastily, he attempts to brush some of it off his shirt. “My apologies, if I’d known you were on your way down I would have cleaned up.”  
   
It’s something he’s said – or at least would have said – a hundred times before, and it never bothered Luke until just now. Today, it hits him at an odd angle. It occurs to him that Michael might be right. People who are not royal _don’t_  live like they do, because they can’t. Luke wonders how many times he’s been rude or dismissive to a palace worker, because that’s how his father treats them and Luke learned to mimic him at a young age.  
   
“Don’t feel the need to put on airs on my account,” Luke says.  
   
Calum looks like he isn’t sure what to say, but then he nods formally. “Thank you, Sir. How can I be of service?”  
   
“Could I take Merlin out?”  
   
“Yes, of course. He’s just been fed so he’s ready to go. Let me fetch his saddle.”  
   
Luke holds his hands up, indicating that he will handle it. “No need.”  
   
Calum nods again, but warily. “Anything else I can assist you with?”  
   
“Do you speak this way, when I’m not around?” Luke inquires as he lifts the brown leather saddle down from a hook on the wall.  
   
“Sir?”  
   
Luke isn’t quite sure how to explain what he means without running the risk of offending, so he changes the subject. “Are you busy, just now? Would you like to come with me on a ride?”  
   
Calum’s eyes go so wide they look in danger of popping from his skull. “Sir?” he repeats.  
   
Luke tries to smile. It’s foreign to him, to treat a servant as he would treat one of his brothers, but Michael insists they deserve as much respect as someone with royal blood and Luke is beginning to wonder if he’s correct about that. “If you’re not in the middle of something else, of course. I know you have work to do.”  
   
There is still the possibility that Calum agrees because he feels like he can’t decline the offer, but Luke doesn't mind that so very much. Calum saddles a smaller brown horse and then mounts it and they take off toward the forest. Luke is never as happy as he is when he’s riding. The wind on his face, the scenery whipping by, the way his eyes water, the burn in his thighs as he holds himself just above Merlin’s saddle. There’s nothing quite like it. Calum keeps up, just behind him, and Luke smiles as they fly along the lawn toward the trees. Not because anything is amusing, but because he’s happy. For just a moment, his family and his obligations are behind him, and nothing but freedom is ahead.  
   
Calum’s horse gallops ahead of Luke’s, and springs skillfully over a fallen tree that blocks their path. Calum guides it just so, his hands gripping the reigns and his face set in determination.  
   
“You’re quite good at this!” Luke tells him.  
   
“So are you!” Calum answers. For just a second, fear passes over his face, as if he’s worried Luke won’t appreciate the jab. But Luke laughs, so Calum does as well.  
   
“Do you ride often?” Luke asks, nearly shouting to be heard over the wind.  
   
“Every day.”  
   
“Where do you go?”  
   
“Nowhere. Just around, like we are now. To keep the horses strong.”  
   
Luke is about to respond, when Calum yells in command to his horse and they both speed even further ahead down the path. Luke laughs again and kicks Merlin, urging him forward to keep up.   
   
They stop at the top of a hill, next to a stream that tumbles downward over a bed of rocks. It will freeze over soon. The clouds in the sky are fluffy and white; rare for November, when it’s usually just grey. The sun pokes out from behind one of them, casting the glen around them in long shadows. Merlin settles on the ground, while Calum’s horse wanders, grazing the grass. It’s still green despite the temperature, although not as lush as it had been in the summer, after a few evenings of frost.  
   
“What’s his name?” Luke asks, of the smaller animal.  
   
“Her. And it’s Daisy.”  
   
“Is she yours?”  
   
Calum frowns and grins all at once, as if Luke should already know the answer to that question. “She’s yours. Or, your father’s, I suppose. She belongs to the castle, like they all do.”  
   
“Do you really ride every day?”  
   
“I ride several times every day. I take each horse out in turn.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“It’s my job.”  
   
“Even in the dead of winter?”  
   
“Even then. Although not for as long.”  
   
Luke looks out at the stream. He sits on a rock, and with a nod invites Calum to sit as well.   
   
“Could I ask you something, Sir?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Is everything alright? You’ve never asked for company before, on a ride.”  
   
Luke considers the question. Michael is getting to him, that’s the truth in all this. They barely tolerate each other and he’s still found a way to get under Luke’s skin, and make him rethink so many things he thought he knew. “How long have we known each other?”  
   
“I’ve worked in the stables since I was a boy. I’ve run them on my own since my father died.”  
   
“So ten years, at least. I see you at least a few times every week. And I don’t know anything about you.” Luke looks at him. “We should be friends, don’t you think? After all this time?”  
   
Calum blinks. His near-black eyes have lightened to a deep chocolate brown in the sunlight. “Why would you want to be friends with me?”  
   
“I think you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a friend already,” Luke admits. “I’ve never left the grounds. None of us have. Jack was the first of us to venture out last month, and that’s only because he’s going to be married. He’s gone now and I might never see him again.”  
   
“That sounds lonely. I’m sorry, Sir.”  
   
“Call me Luke.”  
   
Calum looks distressed. “I couldn’t.”  
   
“When we’re alone,” Luke clarifies. “I know you’d be in trouble if anyone else heard you.”  
   
“Are you sure?”  
   
“Yes. And tell me something about yourself.”  
   
“There’s not much to tell, really. I rarely leave the castle grounds either.”  
   
“How long have you been here?”  
   
“I was born here. My father ran the stables and my mother worked in the kitchen, but they’ve both passed on now. I have an older sister. She worked in the kitchen with my mother but she didn’t want to stay here forever. I don’t know where she is, if she’s even alive.”  
   
“That sounds lonely as well.”  
   
“I do love the horses,” Calum says, with a soft, fond smile.   
   
“So do I.”  
   
Calum nods, and then his smile turns to Luke. “Could I ask something else?”  
   
“Of course.”  
   
“What is the prince like? The one who’s staying here.”  
   
Luke tries to keep his reactive sigh small and dignified instead of dramatic, like he knows he’s been lately. “He’s alright, I suppose. I don’t him very well.”  
   
“There is a lot of talk in the servants’ halls about him.”  
   
“What kind of talk?” Luke asks curiously.  
   
“You know how stories get around. I’ve heard whisperings about the sorts of things he would get up to when he left his castle.” Calum looks uncomfortable, and Luke is burning with the desire to know exactly what Calum’s heard, but he reluctantly changes the subject.  
   
“Do they treat you well, here? At the castle?” Luke asks.   
   
“Well enough.”  
   
“Is there anything that you need? Anything that I can get for you? I’d like to hope you enjoy working here. That you aren’t just here because have nowhere else to go.”  
   
Calum hesitates, still unsure of whether he can be honest, so Luke tries to convey sincerity on his face. “A blanket?” Calum suggests meekly. “The one I sleep with is old and full of holes. I asked the house master for a new one and he said the one I’ve got should do. But it’s quite cold, some nights.”  
   
Luke thinks about his own sleeping quarters, more pillows than he can count and an enormous fireplace and so many thick, warm blankets he has never once actually used them all. He’s never needed to. He’s not even aware of where Calum sleeps; likely, it’s just in the stables on the hay with the horses, with one worn blanket that is full of holes and doesn’t keep him warm.  
   
“If it’s too much trouble …” Calum begins, quickly.  
   
Luke shakes his head. “It’s no trouble at all. I’ll get you a blanket. If there’s ever anything else, you come straight to me, alright?”  
   
“Thank you, Sir.”  
   
“Luke, please,” Luke corrects.  
   
“Luke.” Calum swallows and gazes out into the stream. “Should we be getting back? If anyone turns up at the stables and I’m not there …”  
   
“You were with me,” Luke assures. “I won’t let anyone blame you.”  
   
Calum nods. “You know,” he says carefully, “you can come with me whenever you want to. When I run the horses. If you’d like, since you like to ride.”  
   
Luke smiles. “I’d like that.”

  
*           *           *


	5. Rosemary

The castle is transformed in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Evergreen boughs are draped over the bannisters, decorated with bright red berries and velvet bows to match. Sprigs of holly and rosemary are hung in the windows, and candles sparkle from every available surface. Luke’s mother bounces through the halls, directing the planning for the upcoming festivities and humming to herself and playing carols on the piano in the evenings until they beg her to stop. She’s always happiest at Christmastime but Luke wonders if she’s going a few steps further this year, to make the holiday merrier for their guest who won’t be spending it in his own home. Luke can’t imagine being away from his family at Christmas – but, then, he can’t really imagine being away from them at any time, because he never has been.   
   
Luke has started riding with Calum nearly every day, even on days when the wind burns his skin and pulls tears from his eyes that freeze instantly to his cheeks. Sometimes Calum is still stiff and polite and Luke wishes he would relax, but slowing he is relaxing, and treating Luke less like his master and more like something close to familiar. It’s something new and unaccustomed to Luke, having a true friend and not just a servant who is kind to him out of duty. He still watches Michael and the curly-haired valet when they can't see him, and tries to emulate their casual dynamic with his own new friend. It’s isn’t quite the same, yet, but it’s still radically different than everything Luke has known until now.   
   
Luke thought he knew every inch of the grounds but he doesn’t, and Calum shows him places he’s never been before. A marshy bog that’s frozen over but in the spring Calum says will be bursting with blooms that no one planted. A peak on the North shore that overlooks a tiny cluster of islands, off in the distance. Looking at them made Luke ache to get to them somehow, just to step off of the land mass where he’s spent his entire life. He’s never even touched the ocean. The cliffs at the edge of their property are too steep to climb down. Luke shows Calum is favorite spots as well, although not the ruins. They’re the one secret Luke has always wanted to keep for himself.  
   
“What do you do in the servants’ hall?” Luke asks him one day, as he runs a brush over Merlin’s body and Calum sweeps out the next stall. “On Christmas Day.”  
   
“It’s quite fun, actually. There’s a piano in the hall too, although not as nice as the one upstairs. John can play, and we have our own feast. His Highness always lets us have some wine.” Calum stops sweeping to rub dirt off his cheek with the back of his hand and looks at Luke. “It isn’t as grand as yours but it’s a nice evening.”  
   
“If I thought there was any chance my father would agree, I’d invite you to our dinner.”  
   
Calum bursts into laughter and shakes his head. “Could you imagine? Me in my rags, covered in straw and fumbling with the silverware, seated at a table with the royal family.”  
   
Luke laughs as well. He hadn’t been joking, but it is a ridiculous image. “At least it would be interesting. The only people we ever host are other nobles, and they’re all the same. It’s just nodding politely and pretending to be fascinated by their conversation about land and titles and idle gossip.”  
   
“You probably shouldn’t be saying that.”  
   
“You’re probably right.”  
   
“If I thought there was any chance it wouldn’t get me dismissed, I’d invite you to ours,” Calum says. “Although the maids would likely fall over dead if you walked into the kitchens.”  
   
“What do they think of us?” Luke is genuinely curious, but at the same time he isn’t sure he really wants to know. Watching Michael interact with the staff has made Luke ashamed of the way he used to treat them.  
   
“They like your mother. She’s always kind to us. And Prince Benjamin as well.” Calum pauses, and when he continues he’s being careful. “They respect the King.”  
   
“That’s not the same as liking him.”  
   
“He is a fair employer. That’s all you can really expect, don’t you think? He isn’t meant to be our friend.”  
   
Luke nods thoughtfully. He hangs Merlin’s saddle up on a hook on the wall, and gives his horse a pat on the nose and a bit of sugar from a bag in his pocket. “What about me?”  
   
It’s another moment before Calum answers. “Once, a few years back, one of the maids told me she felt sorry for you.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“She said you seemed … lonely.”  
   
Luke swallows. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say that at least he had his brother Jack to socialize with. It stings to remember that he’s lost that, now, so he lets the words fall away unspoken.  
   
*           *           *  
   
On the Sunday just before Christmas Eve, Luke gathers an armful of books from his room that he’s been meaning to return to the great library, and makes the journey though the long hallways and grand staircases. Two footmen he passes offer to help him carry the books but he politely turns them down. A maid is stoking a fire in the foyer and humming a Christmas tune as she does. She stops when she sees Luke but he picks up the hum where she left off, and smiles to himself at the surprised look on her face.   
   
The curtains in the library are drawn and outside, fat snowflakes drift lazily to the ground, dancing on the gentle breeze. The low sunlight leaves the room bright and cheery and the roaring fires create a cozy glow. Sometimes Luke wishes he could drag his bed down here, set it up by the vast windows and never leave.  
   
“Oh,” Luke says in surprise, belatedly noticing Michael at a table near the smaller windows on the South wall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t … realize you would be here. I didn’t mean to disturb.”  
   
“It’s an enormous room,” Michael answers, without looking up. “There’s space for us both.”  
   
“I was just looking for a new book.”  
   
“You’re in the right place. It is a library.”  
   
His voice is flat and Luke expects the typical smirk but it doesn’t come. Michael still doesn’t look up from the parchment he’s holding between his fingers. Luke hovers for just a moment, unsure of what to do. He sets his stack of books down on a different table, for the archivist to put away, and goes to across the room to a set of shelves. In a few minutes, he locates the book he came to find and fills out the register to note that he’s taken it. He should leave, there are plenty of other nice places where he could spend the afternoon reading. Something in Michael’s demeanour nags in the back of Luke’s mind, though, and he finds he can’t.  
   
“Do you sit in here often?” he asks.  
   
“Shouldn’t I?”  
   
“No, I didn’t mean … it’s my favorite room in the castle. I’ve never seen you here before.”  
   
Michael makes a soft noise in acknowledgement, but it isn’t really an answer.  
   
“What are you reading?” Luke tries.  
   
Finally, Michael does look up. There is something indecipherable in his eyes. “It’s a letter from my mother.”  
   
“Is everything alright?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Luke nods even though Michael isn’t looking anymore, and feels like he shouldn’t have asked. He tucks his book under his arm and turns to go, but when he’s almost at the door, Michael speaks again, quietly like he hadn’t noticed Luke wasn’t right next to him anymore.  
   
“I’ve never been away at Christmas.”  
   
Luke stops walking, and closes his eyes for a moment. His instinct is to keep going and pretend he didn’t hear it. Thus far all his attempts at friendliness have ended in Michael being rude and Luke leaving angry, and there’s no reason this time should be any different. Against his better judgement, he does turn back, and sits across from Michael at the table.  
   
“I was saying that the other day. That you probably hadn’t ever been away from your family for the holidays.”  
   
Michael looks up and frowns. “To whom?”  
   
“The stable boy. The one I told you about.”  
   
“You talk to him about me?” Michael asks with a raised eyebrow.   
   
“Not all the time. We talk about many things.”  
   
Michael nods, with a pensive expression on his face that turns into a small smile. “I sort of thought you were lying. When you said he was your friend.”  
   
“I wasn’t. Although we have become closer lately,” Luke admits. “I saw the way you are with your valet, and I thought … it seemed nice. Especially since Jack left, I have no one else to talk to.”  
   
Michael looks vaguely impressed for just a moment, before looking back down at the letter. “She misses me. Or, that’s what she says, anyway. I expect they’re glad to be rid of me, really. I was always causing trouble.”  
   
“I think mothers love us even when we cause trouble.”  
   
“I doubt yours knows what that’s like.”  
   
Luke is struck with a strange urge to defend his brothers, even though on it’s face what Michael said should have been a compliment. “We weren’t always so perfect. We never got up to the sort of things you do, but we still gave them things to worry about.”  
   
“ _At this time of family and celebration, I wish more than ever you could be with us_ ,” Michael reads from the letter.   
   
“I’m sure she means it.”  
   
“They always expected me to just … do whatever they said, and take direction and learn how to rule and be happy enough with everything I had. I am anointed by God to be the king like my father was, so I wasn’t allowed to want anything else. But that’s not fair, is it? I didn’t ask for any of it. Maybe we do have to accept our lots in life but we don’t have to be happy about them.” It seems like Michael is speaking to himself more than to Luke; trying to convince himself that his rebellious behavior had been justified even though it hurt his parents.  
   
Because Luke isn’t sure how to properly respond, he says, “I’m sorry you have to be here. I’ve never been anywhere but I … I would be sad if I had to be alone on Christmas.”  
   
“I’m not exactly alone,” Michael argues, and then softer, he adds, “Thank you.”  
   
“I miss Jack,” Luke tells him. “I think, maybe that’s the reason I haven’t been very nice to you.”  
   
Michael laughs a little and shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that.”  
   
“Do what?”  
   
“You haven’t been nice to me because I haven’t been nice to you. I don’t need an explanation. Maybe we’re both just unhappy. Maybe it was easier to take it out on a stranger than admit there’s nothing to be done about it.”  
   
Luke nods. It feels both comforting and uncomfortable to be understood by someone he barely knows. “Maybe so. But no one should be unhappy at Christmas, don’t you think?”  
   
Michael looks at him, and for the first time the smile on his face, although small and careful, looks real and without irony. Luke can see, just for a moment, beneath Michael’s confidence and bravado and charm, to a boy struggling to holster some semblance of control over a life he has never been in charge of. Luke relates to the feeling more than he’s ever admitted. It’s only a glimpse, but Luke is relieved by what he sees in Michael’s eyes.  
   
*           *           *


	6. Camellia

“In that field over there,” Luke says, pointing, “the church holds a fair in July. My father lets them use the land because it’s more space than the church has. There are livestock showings and musicians and carts with food and tradesman selling things.”  
   
“Do you go?” Michael asks.  
   
Luke shakes his head. “My father makes a brief appearance. But he says it wouldn’t be safe for the rest of us, so I usually watch from up here.”  
   
Michael snorts. “What is he scared would happen? Some peasant farmer’s wife whips a dagger out from under her skirt and assassinates you? What purpose would that serve? You won’t even be on the throne.”  
   
“I don’t know.” In truth, Luke has never considered that his father locking them away in the castle might be ridiculous. He’s never considered a lot of things.  
   
Michael leans down on his elbows on the stone railing that prevents them from tumbling over the edge of the balcony and to the ground far below. Luke mirrors him. The fair always looks like fun. Every year he watches from this spot, listening to the music and the laughter, watching the children run and the adults talk and barter and bustle about, and wished he could join them. At the same time, he always accepted that it wouldn’t be safe, without ever wondering why or if his father might be wrong.  
   
“It’s quite a view.” Michael looks out over the fields and forests, painted white in January snow, and the village beyond with its ancient stone walls and thatched rooftops.  
   
If Luke squints, he can see the movement of tiny shapes that must be people, but almost too far away to tell for sure. “How long does it take you to get there?”  
   
It’s the first time they’ve spoken of it since their fight in the glasshouse. Luke doesn’t know for sure whether Michael is still sneaking out at night, but he now knows Michael enough to assume that he is.  
   
“Not too long, on a horse.”  
   
“You steal a horse from the stables?” Luke asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise.  
   
“I don’t take  _a_  horse, I take  _my_  horse,” Michael corrects. “It isn’t stealing when she belongs to me.”  
   
“Oh.” Luke had forgotten Michael arrived with his own animals. “What do you call her?”  
   
“Camellia. It’s a flower, my mother named her.”  
   
“I do ride with our stable boy quite often, you could come with us if you want.”  
   
“What’s his name?” Michael asks, giving Luke a familiar sideways glance – the one that says he’s trying to teach Luke something without being too cruel about it. “You don’t have to call him the stable boy, he’s a person.”  
   
“Calum. I do treat him like a person, honestly. I’m not like my father.”  
   
“Good,” Michael replies with a soft smile. “Could Ashton come with us?”  
   
Luke nods. “Of course.”  
   
“Then we’ll take you up on that offer. Although maybe not until next month. I hate riding when it’s this cold.”  
   
“What do you do, when you go out at night?” Luke asks. The last time he inquired, it seemed to annoy Michael, so as much as Luke has been burning to know, he hasn’t asked again until now. A month ago, everything seemed to annoy Michael. That’s changed recently.   
   
“What do you imagine I do? It isn’t some mystical land filled with fairies and dragons, it’s just a town. They’re just people. I go to the pub, I chat with some sailors, I offer to buy dinner for a prostitute who hasn’t eaten in three days, and yes, before you ask, there are prostitutes and no, I don’t give them money for any reason other than charity.”  
   
“I wasn't going to ask that,” Luke says honestly, because he wasn’t, even if he wanted to.  
   
“It’s better here, actually. No one knows me here, as long as I dress to blend in, everyone treats me like I’m one of them. Back home, sometimes I’d be recognized.”  
   
“Why do you want to be one of them, when you’re always saying their lives are so difficult?”  
   
“I’m not jealous of their hardships. I’m jealous of their ability to choose their own lives.”  
   
“How much are they really able to choose, when they have to feed their families and keep their roofs from caving in?” Luke reasons. “How many of them do you think would love to be a painter or a musician but have to farm instead because if they don’t, their children will starve?”  
   
Michael goes quiet. When Luke glances over at him, he’s staring intently toward the village, his eyebrows drawn together.   
   
“Did I say something wrong?” Luke worries.  
   
Michael shakes his head slowly. “No. I’d just never thought about it like that before.”  
   
Luke says, “I’m sorry,” anyway, even though Michael assures him again that he said nothing wrong.  
   
“You really could come with me, you know. I meant that, when I said it. Or, perhaps I didn’t mean it back then, but I mean it now.”  
   
Luke sighs. “If we were caught …”  
   
“Then what?” Michael presses. “What really would happen? Your father would be angry, maybe he’d yell, and what else? What would be so terrible in him being angry with you for a while? He wouldn’t have you executed for disobeying him. Worlds wouldn’t end.”  
   
“He’d likely send you away.”  
   
“That wouldn’t be so horrible either, would it? You don’t like me much anyway.”  
   
The words hit Luke like white-hot embers and it’s suddenly dramatically important to him that Michael knows how wrong he is. “That's not true. Not anymore.”  
   
“Come with me, then. Tonight.”  
   
The part of Luke that secretly longs for adventure is warring with the much larger part, that has been conditioned to do as he’s told and not question it. He doesn’t know how to answer, because in truth he doesn’t know what he wants. He feels pulled in opposite directions, and isn’t truly comfortable with the idea of going either way.  
   
“Okay. It’s okay,” Michael says, taking Luke’s silence as rejection and dropping the subject.  
   
*           *           *  
   
A late February thaw brings reprieve from the bitter clutches of winter, as the sun moves higher in the sky and much of the snow begins the melt. Michael agrees again to ride with Luke and Calum as long as his valet is invited as well, and after they’ve spent a few brisk mornings roaming the grounds together, Luke is struck with the urge to do something he’s never done before. To take Michael to his favorite place, where he goes when he needs to be alone; where he’s never taken even Calum.  
   
Luke is panting by the time they reach the ruins; perched precariously and crumbling on cliffs that cascade sharply to the sea below. The cold, wet breeze makes him shiver, even as he wipes sweat from his forehead. Michael comes up behind him, and then walks past Luke silently, moving closer to the old stone foundations. He reaches one hand out and touches what’s left of an outer wall. Luke watches him, as his pale fingers run over the moss covered bricks. He’s facing away, so Luke can’t see the expression in his eyes, but Michael’s movements are slow and deliberate and there is reverence in the way he touches the ancient stone. When Michael does look back, his expression is sombre, but not sad.   
   
“How old did you say it is?”  
   
“I don’t know for sure,” Luke answers. “I’ve spent hours in the library and found no record of it.”  
   
He’s never told another living soul about this place, but of course he can’t know if others are aware it exists. He’s just always liked hoping it’s his secret alone; that maybe no human has been here since it was abandoned, maybe millennia ago.  
   
“You’re right, it could be a temple,” Michael says, as he walks under a fallen archway and into the center. He gestures toward a spot on the ground that’s stained dark brown. “There’s an old hearth here. Maybe this was an altar. A place some tribe used to contact the next world, a thousand years ago.”  
   
“It’s probably silly to give it so much meaning when I don’t even know how old it is or who was here to use it.” Luke told Michael all his theories, and is embarrassed, now, at how excited he must have seemed. “It could have just been a house.”  
   
Michael shakes his head, and looks over at Luke. “Can’t you feel them?”  
   
Luke shakes his head back, to indicate he doesn’t understand the question.  
   
Putting a hand back onto the wall, as if he can draw information from the structure through his skin, Michael softly says, “There are ancient spirits here.”  
   
Luke’s stomach flips over on itself, because he’s always felt that. The very first time he found this place, he thought he could feel them; hear their whispers on the salty sea breeze and feel their energy when he touched the stones. Gods of a long dead religion, that cling to the place they used to be worshiped in the hopes that one day they’ll be found again. The fact that Michael feels it too hits Luke hard in the chest like an attack, so powerful for a moment he can’t breathe.  
   
“It’s beautiful,” Michael says, pausing for a moment as Luke nods his agreement, and then adds, “I’m sorry.”  
   
Luke frowns. “Why?”  
   
“When I first came here, I said the fact that you’ve never left the castle grounds meant you didn’t know anything. But that wasn’t true. You know so many things that I don’t,” Michael says.  
   
“Like what?” Luke asks. He doesn’t believe it. Michael seems to know everything about the world, and Luke feels like he’s been locked in a cage his entire life. He isn’t sure he knows anything at all. He says so.  
   
“We were both locked in cages. We just reacted differently. I ran away from mine, over and over, no matter how many times they dragged me back. You chose to find the beauty in yours.”  
   
The words make something flutter in Luke’s chest, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep it from showing on his face. He walks closer to Michael and the ruins, as the wind picks up and makes Michael’s voice harder to hear from so far away.  
   
“What is the King’s plan for you? Surely they don’t intend to keep you trapped here forever.”  
   
“The same as Jack, I suppose. Once Ben and Sofia have a son I won’t even be in line for the throne anymore, so they won’t need me here. They’ll find some princess or noble’s daughter. We’ll meet, and be wed a few weeks later, and I’ll go to live with her. In a castle much like this one I’m sure, but … elsewhere.”  
   
“A different cage,” Michael surmises softly.  
   
Luke chews at the skin inside his mouth again, now for a different reason. His eyes sting and he blinks and pretends it’s the wind.  
   
“Does Jack love her? The one they paired him with, the princess?”  
   
“Romantic love is for peasants,” Luke reminds him. He knows Michael knows it already. “People like us marry for position.”  
   
“Is that what you want?”  
   
“I can’t imagine it matters much what I want.”  
   
“Of course it matters.”  
   
“To whom? Not to my father. Or anyone else.”  
   
“You have a choice, Luke.”  
   
“You know I don’t,” Luke mutters angrily, although he isn’t angry at Michael.  
   
“Yes, you do,” Michael insists. “ _I_ don’t. I am the only heir to my kingdom. I abdicate or I leave or I die and my home is thrown into chaos, into war. Dukes fighting with nobles over who should assume control, my mother put to death for trying to stop them. One village attacking the next, peasant farmers turned to soldiers and then their children go hungry. That is not your life. You said it yourself. Once your brother sires an heir, you are free. You could run away and never look back.”  
   
“And where do you propose I go?” Luke argues bitterly. “I have no money, and I couldn’t get any without asking my father for it. You  _were_  right, when you said I don’t know anything. At least not anything real. I know how to ride a horse but someone else groomed and fed and saddled it. I can read a book and I can waltz and I can find an old church on a hillside, but I’ve never cooked a meal, or tended a garden, or used a sword. How would I survive if I ran away?”  
   
“You’re more capable than you realize,” Michael says, and his voice is gentle. “And none of those things are very complicated.”  
   
“People in the village think we’re lucky, don’t they? They think our life is a dream, but the truth is we’re helpless. I wake up in the morning and breakfast just appears, and my clothes are clean and my bath is drawn but I have no idea how any of it happens. We’re dependent on scores of people whose names we don’t even know, and if one day they all decided to up and leave, we’d be dead in a week.”  
   
“People don’t know all those things because they were born with the knowledge, they know because someone taught them. You could learn, if you needed to. If you wanted … something more.”  
   
“More than what?”  
   
There is a sparkle in Michael’s eyes, and it’s almost as if Luke can see the ghosts of something Michael wants to say but won’t. “More than believing you aren’t allowed to be anything other than what your family decides for you.”  
   
“That doesn’t mean much coming from you, when you’re doing the exact same thing,” Luke says. Immediately, he regrets it. “I’m sorry. That’s not true, I know it isn’t the same.”  
   
“Maybe it is, a little.” Michael shrugs a shoulder listlessly. “Maybe that’s why I care, maybe that’s why I want you to dream of something bigger than being married off and forgotten about. Because I can’t.”  
   
Luke isn’t sure of what to say, so instead he leaves the ruins and sits down close to the edge of the cliff. Michael joins him, and for a few moments, they exist in silence; staring out at the waves and the gulls riding on them. The cold, wet ground seeps through Luke’s clothes and skin and makes him shiver, but he doesn’t stand up.  
   
Finally, Luke asks, “Is there a girl yet, for you? To become your queen?”  
   
“No. Although they’ve tried.”  
   
“How many have they tried?”  
   
“Maybe five. I never kept track.”  
   
“Were they all so terrible?”  
   
“None of them were terrible.”  
   
“Why do you resist, then?” Luke turns his head to look at Michael. “Why do you turn down your prospects, and put tattoos on your skin, and run away when you know they’ll drag you back?”  
   
“It isn’t about achieving a result. It’s about taking back what little control I have. It’s so I can sleep at night. They can force me to be a king but they can’t force me to act like one.”  
   
“I must seem very feeble to you. That I’ve just submitted and let them control me.”  
   
“You’re not submitting. You’re choosing to make the best of it. There’s nothing feeble about that.”  
   
“No?” Luke doesn’t believe it.  
   
“There is strength in changing what you can and accepting the things you can’t,” Michael insists. “It’s just not a strength I’ve ever had.”  
   
“You don’t behave as if you believe it can’t change. You behave like you think if you cause enough bother, one day they’ll give up on you and let you go. So which is it?”  
   
With a furrowed brow, Michael admits, “I don’t know.”  
   
It sounds to Luke like he does know, but doesn’t want to say, so Luke lets the topic fall away. He looks back at the water, and a moment later Michael’s head drops down onto Luke’s shoulder. Luke’s stomach flips again, and he swallows and stays perfectly still; caught part-way between confused, and afraid if he makes a sound, Michael will move away.  
   
*           *           *


	7. Pear Blossom

“Couldn’t we at least have waited for the snow to melt?” Michael complains, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders as his horse trots next to Luke’s.  
   
“Would you like to turn back, Your Highness?” Calum asks, twisting around on Daisy to address Michael.  
   
“No, he wouldn’t,” Luke answers for him.   
   
“It’s so much colder here than what we’re used to,” Michael complains, referring to himself and his valet.  
   
“It likely isn’t quite so hot in the summer as where we come from, though, being close to the ocean,” the valet says.  
   
“Have you ever seen the ocean before, Mr. Irwin?” Calum asks, sounding to Luke as if he’s only politely feigning interest in their conversation.  
   
Luke can hear the annoyance in Michael’s voice as he orders, “His name is Ashton. My name is Michael. We’re not in court, everyone call everyone else by their Christian names or I’m turning around and heading back.”  
   
“He really doesn’t like the cold,” Ashton teases.  
   
Luke stifles a laugh, and earns himself a glare from Michael for his poor attempt at doing so.  
   
They fly across the still frozen fields, frigid wind whipping their faces and sending tears down Luke’s cheeks that freeze before they reach his chin. He wipes them away and urges his horse on, speeding past Calum and Daisy. As predicted, the heavy foot-falls of Calum’s horse quicken behind Luke, and he hears Calum’s laugh, faint against the howl of the wind, as he joins in the race. Michael and Ashton fall behind, but catch up when they reach the waterfall. It cascades down over rocks and moss, slower at this time of year than it will in the middle of summer, and trickles down a stream where it will eventually meet the ocean.  
   
“Took you long enough,” Calum jokes.  
   
“A king is never late,” Michael intones, dryly, as if he’s quoting something his father taught him that he always found preposterous until just this moment when it finally became useful to him. “Everyone else is early.”  
   
“You’re not a king yet,” Ashton reminds him. Michael responds with a raised eyebrow, to which Ashton leaps off his horse and dramatically sinks to one knee in the snow. He bows ridiculously and begs, “A thousand apologies, Your Great Highness.”  
   
“Get up before you catch your death,” Michael tells him, as a huge smile creases the skin around his eyes.  
   
Luke silently marvels at them. He’s come a long way with Calum in the last few months, but if his father ever caught their stable boy openly mocking the heir to the throne, he suspects it would take less than one day for Calum to be publicly beheaded.   
   
“So, what is so special about this spot, that we had to ride here in this weather?” Michael asks, hoping down off his horse as well and looping the reigns around a nearby tree.  
   
“Nothing, other than it’s nice to look at.” Luke dismounts, but lets Merlin wander. He never goes too far away.  
   
“In just a week or two, this whole riverbed will be bursting with spring blossoms. Tulips, daffodils, crocuses.”  
   
“We should have waited, then.”  
   
“We’ll come back.” Luke suppresses a smile at Michael’s grumpy mood, and unhooks the basket Calum packed in the hopes that a full stomach might improve it. “Will food and drink cheer you up a bit?”  
   
“Yes.” Michael holds out a hand and Luke hands him a bottle of wine. Their fingers brush as the bottle passes between them, and Michael’s corresponding grin is just for Luke.  
   
*           *           *  
   
In the distance, the sun begins to just touch the blurred line of the horizon, turning the sky pink and orange as it does. There is a thick blanket draped over Luke’s shoulders, and he wraps it around himself to keep the cold out. He’d rather shiver than go back inside, back to his parents and his brother and Sofia sitting by the fire, nothing between them but dry, stilted conversation and expensive brandy. This high balcony has become their spot – his and Michael’s – to retreat to after dinner. Tonight, something delicate is on Luke’s mind, something he has been itching to ask for weeks but hasn’t yet out of fear of breaking the still fragile friendship they’ve created.  
   
“Could I ask you something?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“You don’t have to answer, if you’d prefer not to.”  
   
“Ask it and we’ll see.”  
   
“I asked you once, before we were friends. About … the other reason you were sent here. The reason that wasn’t the tattoos or the sneaking off into the village at night.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
“Your father caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing, didn’t he?”  
   
For a long moment, Michael is silent. Luke repeats that he doesn’t have to say, but Michael doesn’t answer to that either. He just stares into the distance, his brow furrowed, as if he’s weighing the consequences of spilling the secret. Finally he admits, “I’m worried you might not talk to me anymore, if you knew.”  
   
“It couldn’t be as bad as that,” Luke reasons. “You’d never have … killed someone, or stolen something important that didn’t belong to you. You care about people too much to hurt anyone.”  
   
“I didn’t hurt anyone,” Michael confirms quietly. “But sometimes that doesn’t matter.”  
   
“Please tell me.” Luke puts his hand on Michael’s forearm. “I promise I’ll still talk to you, no matter what it is.”  
   
Michael blinks down at Luke’s hand where his touching his sleeve and frowns, but not like he wants Luke to remove it. Luke does anyway, just in case he’s reading Michael’s expression incorrectly.  
   
“My father sent guards into the village, to capture me and bring me back to the castle,” Michael says finally. “The night after he found out about the tattoo and had threatened to send me away. I shouldn’t have snuck out again so soon, but I did, and he knew, and he sent them after me. They found me in a pub.”  
   
“That doesn’t sound so horrible,” Luke says.  
   
Michael shakes his head. He still won’t look at Luke, choosing instead to focus intensely on the setting sun. “I was in the alleyway behind the pub, actually. With a local boy who worked in the fields. His name was John.”  
   
“Drunk? Fighting?” Luke suggests, trying to make it easier on Michael by guessing.  
   
Michael laughs softly, humorlessly, and shakes his head. “No.” He sighs, and fidgets uncomfortably. “We were doing something that we shouldn’t have been doing. Something … a man is only supposed to do with his wife. Or so the church says, although it happens more than people think. Just not usually between a prince and a farmhand.”  
   
It takes Luke far longer than it should to work out what Michael means by that. When it finally hits him, it hits him harder than a barrel of stones dropped onto him from ten storeys up. A pit forms in his stomach, twisting and lurching as his mind tries to make sense of what he thinks Michael is saying. “You … you mean you were …”  
   
“I knew you’d be mad,” Michael mumbles, sounding utterly ashamed of himself. He busies his hands with pulling at loose threads around the cuffs of his sleeves.  
   
“Now, hold on, I’m not angry,” Luke protests. “I’m just trying to understand, you’re saying you were … having … with a boy? In an  _alley_?”  
   
“It wasn’t an attack, if that’s what you’re thinking. It wasn’t the first time he and I had … and there were others, before him. Although never the same one for very long. They all knew the sort of trouble they’d be in if we were ever caught.”  
   
The thought turns over in Luke’s head but he can’t force it to make any sense. “ _Why_? Was it just a way to get back at your father?”  
   
“No.” Michael finally looks at him, and his eyes are shiny with tears. The breeze pushes strands of hair over his face, and Michael pushes them away with shaking fingers. “I didn’t see it, Luke. Maybe the very first time I just wanted to break the rules but then I realized … I didn’t see it. When I looked into a girl’s eyes.”  
   
“Didn’t see what?”  
   
“Whatever you’re supposed to see. Whatever you’re supposed to  _feel_.” Michael huffs in frustration, and a tear spills over the rim of his left eye and Luke’s hand twitches with the urge to reach up and wipe it away. “Whatever my parents felt, or your parents, or your brothers. Even if people like us don’t marry purely for love, they still feel  _something_  when they look at each other on their wedding day. I didn’t feel it.”  
   
“Maybe you haven’t met her, yet. The one that will make you feel it.”  
   
Michael shakes his head and looks away. “You don’t understand. The girls they brought for me were beautiful, and positioned, and clever and refined, and I didn’t feel anything when I looked at them. John made my heart race and my palms sweat, he made me imagine all sorts of ridiculous things that could never be possible, even though we barely knew each other.” He spits the words, like they’re offensive to him. Like he despises himself for saying them but isn’t able to stop now that he’s started. “That’s why I could never marry any of them, they all deserved better than being tied to someone who could never love them.”  
   
Luke swallows and turns back to rest his elbows on the railing, now staring at the darkening sky himself and working to process everything Michael is spilling on him. It isn’t what he was expecting. He knows it’s a forbidden thing by all the laws of man and God he’s ever been made aware of, the few times this topic has been raised in hushed tones when Luke was nearby enough to hear it. It isn’t something anyone talks about, and yet everyone knows the rules all the same.  
   
“What happened when they found you?”  
   
“They dragged him off me. It was a scene. I tried to tell them it wasn’t his fault but they took him away from me anyway, and took me back to the castle. I don’t know what happened to him. I tried to find out but no one would tell me.”  
   
“Do you think they hurt him?”  
   
“I can’t imagine they would have let him go,” Michael says bitterly, like it breaks his heart to think about it. “If he’s alive, he’s in prison. It’s entirely my fault, he never should have been mixed up in all this.”  
   
“What about when you got back?”  
   
“Nothing, really. My father wouldn’t even look at me. He’d already sent the letter to your father at that point, I was already going to be cast off. He didn’t speak to me for over a week, and then I came here. He’s going to die, and my last memory of him will be his utter disgust at having me for a son.”  
   
Luke doesn’t know what to say. He wonders if he’s as surprised as he should be. He wonders if he’s surprised at all, or if somewhere deep down he suspected this but just never let himself consider it.  
   
“You hate me, now, don’t you?” Michael sniffs and wipes his own eyes with the sleeves of his shirt. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”  
   
“No, Michael, I don’t,” Luke says. “I can’t say I fully understand but … you clearly wouldn’t have chosen this, if you had any say in the matter.”  
   
“I don’t know how to be normal … everything would be so easy if I could just turn it off, these feelings … I can’t, though. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”  
   
He sounds so miserable that Luke can’t keep his distance anymore. No matter his own confusion, Michael is his friend and he’s in pain and Luke can’t leave him like this. Tentatively he puts an arm around Michael’s shoulders, and when Michael shudders and cries even harder, Luke wraps him in a hug so tight he can feel every sob down to his toes. Michael clings to him, his fingers curling into fists in handfuls of Luke’s jacket and tears soaking through the fabric where his face presses into Luke’s shoulder.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Luke whispers. “I don’t hate you, not at all. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”  
   
Michael just hugs him and cries, and tears sting in Luke’s eyes too because it hurts to see someone he cares about so upset. Even more troubling, is the thought that Luke never knew he should feel something important when he looked at a girl. He thought his parents and brothers were wed for position and to ensure the stability of the monarchy with heirs. He didn’t think they needed to love each other. If Luke was meant to feel something while looking at a pretty face and an elegant gown and rosy cheeks, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt it either. It’s too perplexing to contemplate with his arms full of Michael, so Luke pushes it away.   
   
*           *           *


	8. Iris

Early spring brings back the tiny green beginnings of daffodils and tulips that Luke waits for every year through the seemingly endless winters. The tiny buds poke their way through the damp ground as the snow finally recedes. In the glasshouse, the African Amaryllis have green stalks about an inch high sticking up from the dirt. Luke checks it every day, eager to see what colours the flowers are when they finally emerge. Michael goes with him, although he complains about it every time. Luke always points out that Michael doesn’t need to come, and yet Michael always does anyway, so Luke expects he doesn’t mind as much as he says he does.   
   
They haven’t spoken about Michael’s confession on the roof, and it’s been three weeks. Luke doesn’t bring it up in conversation because he doesn’t know what to say. He would listen if Michael wanted to talk, but Michael hasn’t brought it up either so they’ve been stuck in and endless loop of pretending the conversation didn’t happen. Sometimes Luke hates that, other times he thinks it’s easier this way. The idea of Michael, in an alley behind a pub with a boy, makes Luke’s stomach turn over itself, but it isn’t in disgust. He doesn’t understand what emotions he feels about it, and it’s been simpler to just push them away than attempt to dissect them. Luke isn’t so sure he’d be happy about what he discovered if he thought about the whole thing for too long, so he tries to avoid it. He wants to tell Calum, just to have someone who isn’t Michael to discuss it with. Twice now, Luke has caught himself almost spilling the secret. But he won’t. It isn’t his secret, so he has no right to spread it to anyone else. He does wonder if Michael’s valet knows. He won’t ask that either, much as he might like to.  
   
On a sunny Tuesday, Luke is playing chess with Michael in the library. They dragged the stone chessboard over to the windows, so they could soak up the warmth while they play. A footman had rushed over to insist on helping them, but Luke waved him away. After spending a lifetime being treated as if he’s barely capable of anything more difficult than lifting a fork to his mouth, he’s become satisfied by doing things for himself that he would never have done before Michael came here. Luke was hungry the other day in mid-afternoon, so he found his way to the kitchens and helped himself to a piece of bread. He might not do that again – the kitchen maids nearly fainted when they saw him and the cook was tripping over her own feet in her haste to offer to make him something more substantial and he left the kitchen feeling like he wasn’t being respectful of their space and their rules. Even still, he likes the idea of slowly convincing the castle staff that they can treat him like a person when they see him, and not something delicate that needs to be coddled. Luke didn’t miss the way Michael’s mouth curved into a small smile when he wouldn’t let the footman help them move the chessboard.  
   
The castle had been drafty in March, even with all the fires lit, and Luke feels like a barn cat stretched out in the afternoon sun. Just as Michael announces his checkmate and Luke concedes to half-annoying half-endearing gloating from Michael, Luke’s brother enters the library and hurries over to them.  
   
“I won,” Michael tells Ben, smiling smugly.  
   
“Good. It’s about time someone in this place could beat him, Luke’s always been better than anyone and not shy about reminding us.”  
   
“That is not true, I have never been anything but gracious,” Luke cuts in.  
   
“Whatever you say.” Ben grins. “I have good news. Jack is coming home.”  
   
Just for a second, Luke doesn’t dare to believe it, in case it’s a trick. But Ben doesn’t make jokes like that, and his expression is serious, and Luke’s stomach flips over itself in excitement.   
   
“When?” he asks quickly.  
   
“Soon. His letter arrived this morning.”  
   
Luke isn’t sure of what to say. He’d like to do a dance, or shout, or throw his arms around someone in happiness, but none of those things would be appropriate in the library. His smile is so wide it cuts into his cheeks, even after Ben leaves them to their game – with a bounce in his step that suggests under his carefully cultivated regal composure, he’s excited too.  
   
“How long has be been gone?” Michael asks.  
   
“It feels like an eternity.” Luke blows out a breath and turns his smile to Michael. “It was only supposed to be a couple of weeks, but it’s been months. He’d already been gone for weeks before you arrived.”  
   
“Is that good or bad, that he’s been gone for so long? For him, I mean, and the princess.”  
   
“I don’t know.” Luke shakes his head. Deep, deep down inside, in places he won’t even show to Michael, Luke secretly hopes that Jack’s extended trip meant his courtship did not go well, and he’s finally returning home now having realized it’s a bad match and calling the whole thing off. It’s a horrible thing to wish, that what is supposed to be a happy time in his brother’s life ended up unravelling. It’s also highly unlikely, but Luke wishes it all the same even though he knows the chances of it being true are slim.  
   
“Did he have any choice in it?” Michael asks. “If it turned out they hated each other, could he refuse?”  
   
“I suppose so, in the sense that no one is going to tie him up and force him to marry her. But it would have been complicated.”  
   
“Pressure isn’t always physical,” Michael says, and Luke understands he isn’t only talking about Jack. Then, he shakes his head a bit as if to clear it, and his smile returns. “Listen, this is fantastic news, we shouldn’t make it gloomy so fast. You’ve missed him like mad and he’s coming home!”  
   
Luke nods again, and feels his own smile all the way down to his toes.  
   
*           *           *  
   
Luke’s father organizes a full compliment to welcome Jack to the castle, which seems ridiculous to Luke because Jack lived here for his entire life except for the last few months so he isn’t a guest that needs to be impressed, but he doesn’t say so. He stands obediently between Michael and Ben, watching as the procession of carriages approach and his heart beats a little harder against his ribcage than it should be. When Jack’s carriage finally slows to a stop in front of them, Luke feels a hand briefly wrap around his and squeeze for just a moment before falling away. It makes something odd flutter in his chest that Michael is as excited for Luke as Luke is for himself.  
   
Footmen rush to open the door and unroll the metal steps, and Jack steps out, looking both entirely the same as when Luke said goodbye to him last Autumn and yet somehow different, as if he’s experienced life in a way that makes him look older and wiser. Probably, Luke is being dramatic. It’s stupid that he’s expecting Jack will be a different person after all this time, simply because he’s been in France courting a princess. They likely didn’t so much as hold hands, or if they did, not without twenty chaperones watching their every move, so he hasn’t experienced any more of life than Luke has.  
   
“My darling,” their mother gushes, reaching Jack first and laughing as he envelopes her in an unceremoniously generous hug. He should have just kissed her cheek stoically, but Jack never followed the rules as rigidly as anyone wanted.  
   
“Welcome home,” the King says formally, and Jack shakes his hand.  
   
“Thank you, sir.”  
   
“How was your journey? Not too horrible, I hope.” The Queen won’t let go of his arm, like she’s afraid if she does he’ll get back into his carriage and leave them again just as he’s arrived. “Come inside, are you hungry?”  
   
As he’s hustled into the house, Jack’s eyes meet Luke’s and he winks.  
   
Servants bustle about, collecting Jack’s cases and leading the horses away. A few of the housemaids give warm, friendly greetings to Jack’s valet, now that the King is no longer watching and they’re allowed to be casual.  
   
“He looks like you,” Michael tells Luke.  
   
“Everyone says that,” Luke answers. He takes a deep breath, and follows his family back into the castle, with Michael following closely behind.  
   
*           *           *  
   
It isn’t until well after the sun has gone down and his parents have retired to their chambers for the night, that Luke finally gets a moment alone with his brother. Their mother has been fussing over him since the moment he arrived, and a formal dinner to celebrate his return saw their dining room filled with nobles from neighbouring counties and their elegantly dressed wives. Jack was forced to recount how splendidly the courtship had gone, and was treated to countless toasts in his honor and to the future partnership his marriage will bring between their own kingdom and the one where he’ll soon live. She has an older brother, so Jack will not rule over anyone, but, as their father announces, sounding unusually jovial and satisfied with himself, Jack’s presence there will bring peace and mutual advantage for years to come.  
   
Jack is gracious enough to put up with it all, with a smile on his face that only Luke can see through. Jack has never liked spectacle and grandeur and attention. By the time the ices are cleared away, Jack looks ready to run away from it all given the slightest chance. He doesn’t get that chance, though. They retire to the sitting room for brandy, and then to the hall for impromptu dancing, and it’s passed midnight by the time most of their guests have left and the ones staying the night have gone to bed. Michael stuck close to Luke for the evening, turning down three requests to dance and earning himself dirty looks from all sides for doing so. If he noticed, Michael didn’t seem to care. When the party winds down, Michael touches Luke’s arm as he excuses himself to his rooms, with a funny smile on his face. It might be sympathetic – silently consoling Luke over the fact that his brother is probably back for such a short time before he’s gone for good. Or it might be something else. Luke can’t tell.  
   
He catches Jack’s eyes from across the hall, as he’s thanking the last of the guests for coming. Once they’ve made their exit, Jack nods toward the doors at the end of the room, that lead outside to the expansive balcony that overlooks the garden maze and the fountains. Luke meets him there, the fresh spring air hitting his flushed cheeks and cooling them. Once they’re outside and finally, blissfully, alone, Jack wraps Luke up in the tightest embrace, and Luke clings to him and feels the hug in his soul.  
   
“Damn it, I missed you,” Jack says.  
   
“You shouldn’t swear,” Luke reminds him, but he doesn’t care at all. “Damn it, I missed you more. I hated being stuck here without you.”  
   
Jack pulls back and looks into Luke’s eyes, and smiles. “I hope you caused a bit of trouble in my absence. We both know Ben won’t have done anything to liven this place up.”  
   
“I went into the kitchens the other day. The cook nearly had a fit.”  
   
Jack laughs. “What a rebel. I promise not to report you.”  
   
“Tell me about you,” Luke urges. “How was France? Are you happy to be home?”  
   
Jack leans his elbows onto the railing and Luke mimics him. So many times he’s stood just like this with Michael on one of the many balconies, overlooking the land and the night sky and discussing things they wouldn’t bring up with anyone else. It wasn’t until just this moment that Luke realized why he loved those conversations with Michael so much. They reminded him of what he had with Jack; what he lost when Jack went away.  
   
“Beautiful. Cold in the winter, like here. They say it’s deadly hot in the summer, worse than what we’re used to. I’m not sure how I’ll survive.”  
   
“You are going to … go back, then. To live there, permanently.” Luke always knew that, but there’s still a twinge of sadness to have it confirmed.  
   
“I am. I proposed, to Celeste. Just before I left. The wedding is next month.”  
   
Luke swallows over the lump that buildings in his throat. “A few weeks, then. That’s what I have left with you until …”  
   
“I’m not dying, Luke. I’ll only be a few days journey away, you can visit me as often as you like.”  
   
“I’m sorry.” Luke shakes his head and curses himself for being so selfish. “This is a good moment for you, and I’m making it about myself. I am happy for you, honestly.”  
   
“It’s not easy, this thing where we have to grow up and everything has to change. Is it?”  
   
“No it isn’t.” Luke sighs and blinks up at the stars. They’re blurred slightly in the cloud cover, but still bright enough to count. He wishes they could lie on their backs on the ground and do just that, like they used to when they were little and everything was simple. “Do you love her?”  
   
“I think so. She’s really … she’s very kind, and she’s wickedly funny when her family isn’t around to scold her for being unladylike. You’ll like her, too. I know you will.”  
   
“Aren’t you angry at all, that you’re being forced to marry her?”  
   
“I’m not being forced anything,” Jack answers with a small amused laugh. “Maybe my options are fewer than some but this is how things are done, Luke. And when it comes down to it … she’s lovely. She’s the sort of person I would have picked, if I were allowed to have anyone in the world. So where’s the wrong in it?”  
   
“Michael always talks about … all the choices that other people have. All the ways that our lives don’t belong to us.”  
   
“Is that what he’s like? I barely had a chance to say more than how-do-you-do to him before I was whisked away.”  
   
“He’s nice. He’s made me realize … a lot of things. But he’s nice.”  
   
“What sort of things?”  
   
The question makes Luke’s skin prickle, because he isn’t completely sure what he meant by that even though the words came out of his own mouth. “It doesn’t matter. It’s been good, having him here. Made it so that I wasn’t so alone.”  
   
“You won’t ever be alone,” Jack promises. He puts his arm over Luke’s shoulders and tugs him in close again. “One day, sooner than you think, you’ll meet someone that you want to spend the rest of your life with. Think of the fun we’ll have, you and me, and our families. There will be parties where you and I sneak off and spend the entire night hiding out and talking, like we used to. Our children will be best friends. Things will be different from now on, but they won’t be bad. You’ll see.”  
   
Luke nods and smiles, and doesn’t for even an instant believe any of that is true.  
   
*           *           *


	9. cyclamen

 

The journey to France is the first time in his entire life that Luke has ever ventured beyond the castle grounds. His parents used to embark on diplomatic tours, sometimes they would be gone for months, and sometimes they would take Ben with them, but Luke and Jack were never allowed to go along. Luke never wanted to, necessarily, but wasn’t given a choice either way. On a Thursday, in the rain, he watches as servants load heavy cases into luggage carriages, with Michael standing next to him. They’d snuck down to the stables earlier, to let Calum know they’d be gone for two weeks and to ask him to take extra care of Luke’s horse Merlin. It’s Calum’s job to do just that, but Luke felt silly admitting he wanted to say goodbye to his friend so he invented an excuse to visit. He’s not sure Calum didn’t see through it.  
   
Michael’s valet will be accompanying them, and he helps Thomas with Luke’s cases while Luke’s stomach twists in unease. It’s partly because watching servants do things for him that Luke could easily do for himself bothers him now. He never gave it a second thought before he met Michael. It’s also partly because Luke is dreading the wedding more than he’s ever dread anything before.  
   
The King sweeps dramatically into the hall, flanked as always by footmen, and makes a lot of noise about how much they’re running late. The Queen bustles out the front doors after him, and smiles kindly at the footman who helps her into the carriage before the King joins her and the doors are latched. Jack and Ben climb into the next carriage, and Luke gets into a third one with Michael. Luke had assumed Michael would ride with his valet as he did on his journey here from his home, but Ashton had said, with a knowing smile that made Luke uncomfortable, he would ride with some of the other staff accompanying them on their journey and Luke could ride with Michael. That, at least, will make the journey more pleasant. Since Jack’s return, Luke has seen much less of Michael.  
   
The journey is long and arduous, with seemingly endless days on bumpy roads and even longer nights spent in various castles along the way belonging to neighbouring nobles that Luke has never heard of. Every one of them greets their party with elegant dinners and wine and music and while it’s kind of them to put on such a show, Luke is exhausted by the time night falls and just wants to sleep. Michael tries to stay with Luke as much as he can but as the heir to his own kingdom, he’s swept up into it all along with Ben. By the third day, Luke is used to the rumble of the wheels beneath their carriage, and he plays cards with Michael while marveling at the beauty of the countryside out their windows, and it feels closer to the normal he’s become accustomed to over the last several months. For at least a few hours, he almost forgets where they’re going and why.  
   
The castle finally appears in the distance, amongst rolling hills of farmland, and Luke’s eyes go wide as he looks at it. Much larger than their own, it sprawls across grounds of vibrant lawns and spectacular gardens. After they pass through the heavily guarded gate, it’s nearly another hour before they even reach it.  
   
“This is where Jack’s going to live?” Michael asks, his expression just as astonished as Luke’s sure his own is.  
   
“Not permanently,” Luke answers. “His princess has an older brother, remember, so this place will be his when he inherits the crown. Jack said a castle is being built for them, nearby. It won’t be as enormous as this one, but …”  
   
“Still a castle. Some people live in mud huts.”  
   
Luke stares at him. “Where?”  
   
“Everywhere.” Michael smiles his familiar patient smile, the one that graces his features when he’s trying not to tease Luke for how little he knows about the world.  
   
Vast rooms, carved in marble and draped in velvet, are decorated with more roses than Luke’s ever seen in one place. Red swaths of them hang from every available hook and sconce, tied into wreaths and wrapped into garland, and they look like blood dripping from the walls. Luke trails behind his family as they are welcomed theatrically, in full regal splendour obviously meant to both impress and intimidate. Luke’s own father is the master of that tactic, but even he might be outdone by the majesty of this place. Translators with heavy accents chase around after them, allowing dialogue between the two families. Jack’s future bride is small and shy, with copper-coloured hair twisted elaborately into knots on her head, and she speaks both languages well enough to help with interpretation. Her smile is kind and her eyes are bright and to his own internal dissatisfaction, Luke likes her. He’d secretly wanted her to be horrible, but she isn’t, and that makes everything harder.  
   
*           *           *  
   
The morning of Jack’s wedding day, Luke is in a dressing room with Ben and Jack and Jack’s valet. Ben asks the questions Luke imagines any brother would ask on a wedding day; if Jack is nervous, if he’s ready for it all, if he knows how proud he’s made them. Once the valet leaves them, it occurs to Luke that this could be the very last time the three of them are alone together, and the thought burns in the back of his throat.  
   
“Good luck,” he tells Jack anyway, and hugs him tight. Ben wraps himself around them both, and for just a moment Luke is eight years old again, and his brothers mean the entire world to him, and everything is exactly as it should be.  
   
“I’m going to check on Sofia,” Ben says, patting Jack on the shoulder and grinning as he leaves the room.  
   
“Are you really happy for me?” Jack asks wryly.  
   
Luke hates that it’s halfway a lie when he answers, “Of course. She seems really lovely.”  
   
“She is. And yours will be to, whoever she is. You’ll find her soon enough.”  
   
“What if … I didn’t?”  
   
“Didn’t what?”  
   
“Didn’t end up in the kind of life that you will. Didn’t have children for yours to play with, didn’t get married at all?”  
   
For a long, agonizing moment, Jack doesn’t respond. He stares out the window over the trees, silent and contemplative, and Luke panics inside but does his best to keep it from showing on his face. Finally, when Jack speaks, it’s slow and deliberate, as if he is straining to keep from saying what he would truly like to say. “Your life is yours, Luke.”  
   
Luke scoffs. “Is it?”  
   
“Yes,” Jack answers, gentle but forceful. “I know what you think.”  
   
“What do I think?”  
   
“You think that I’m being forced to marry Celeste. You think that Ben was forced to marry Sofia. You think that you’ll be forced to marry as well, when the time comes. You think that none of us had any say in the matter, as if we were prisoners in our own bodies, and you think these things because if they were true, it would be easier to accept that I’m leaving. But you’re wrong.”  
   
Emotion wells up in the back of Luke’s throat once again, and he grits his teeth to keep it at bay.  
   
“I love you, so very much,” Jack says, as one hand comes up to rest on Luke’s neck. “And I will miss you, now that we won’t see each other every day. But we’re grown now, and this is the way of the world, and I also love her. I’m not being forced to marry her, I  _want_  to marry her. Perhaps I don’t have the freedom to choose anyone on the face of the earth but there is a lot of ground between that and having no choice at all. You can make choices too.”  
   
Luke nods and hates that tears spring to his eyes.  
   
“It’s alright.” Jack hugs him, and Luke squeezes his brother tightly and wishes he’d never have to let go.  
   
“I am happy for you,” Luke promises, and it is partly the truth. “I just wish we didn’t have to say goodbye.”  
   
“Then we won’t. When you leave, we’ll say ‘See you soon’. Because we will.”  
   
“Okay.” Luke tries desperately to make himself believe it.  
   
*           *           *  
   
The service is as nice as Luke knew it would be. There are parties every evening for a week, and from what Luke can see of the village beyond the castle grounds, the people are celebrating as well. It’s all very extravagant and joyous, and he even has a little bit of fun despite himself. He dances and enjoys the music and the festivities. It’s easy to forget, in the exuberant atmosphere, the things he’s unhappy about. It isn’t until they leave, and as promised Jack says  _see you soon_ , that it all comes back to Luke and leaves him depressed as their carriages turn down the driveway and head in the opposite direction.  
   
Michael doesn’t say anything for a while, he just lets Luke brood. A few hours in he must get sick of the tense silence all at once because he abruptly closes his book and slams it down in his lap. The sound makes Luke jump.  
   
“You are aware that you’re being ridiculous, right?” Michael asks sharply.  
   
Maybe he’s expecting Luke to snap back and for them to fight, but in truth, Luke does know he’s being ridiculous, and can’t seem to help it, and the accusation breaks him. As many times as tears have burned behind his eyes in the last few weeks, he’s never outright let them fall, but this time he isn’t able to hold them back.  
   
Michael swears, tossing his book to the floor and crossing the small space to join Luke on his side of the carriage. He sits on the velvet bench next to Luke, and his hands reach out to find Luke’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …”  
   
“No, you’re right.” Luke sniffles pathetically and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I do know how I’m acting. I hate it. I just … you do know I wasn’t joking, when I said I’d never left the castle before? This is the very first time. I was never  _allowed_  to leave, even if I had wanted to. And Jack wasn’t allowed either, so there were so many times when all we’d have was each other. He’s the only person I’ve ever been able to count on, and he’s been there every day since I was a baby and now he’s gone, and it’s forever, and sure we’ll see each other now and then but it won’t be the same and I hate it. I know that’s not fair. I know – ”  
   
“Stop,” Michael interrupts, moving a bit closer. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel what you feel, I’m sorry I said it was ridiculous.”  
   
“It is, you were right.”  
   
“I didn’t have siblings,” Michael says gently. “Everything you just described … I don’t know what that’s like. I was always alone. Probably if I’d had a brother or a sister, I would feel exactly like you do.”  
   
Luke doesn’t know what else to say so he just shrugs miserably, and Michael moves in closer and puts his arm around Luke’s shoulders. Luke’s stomach churns again, but suddenly it feels different. For just a moment, it’s as if time stands still. He looks up at Michael, to find Michael staring back at him, concerned, maybe confused. Luke doesn’t know what comes over him. If he’s gone insane in his grief, or if someone slipped something into his drink at breakfast before they left, or if his world has been turned so much on its head since Michael arrived all those months ago that Luke has simply lost the ability to think properly. Whatever the reason, or maybe for a hundred reasons or for none at all, Luke leans forward and presses his lips into Michael’s.   
   
Michael is still for only a second, just a breath but long enough for Luke to panic that he’s ruined everything, and then Michael melts into it, his other arm wrapping around Luke too and his lips parting and a small, contented hum leaving his mouth and vibrating between them. Luke’s head spins and his heart races and he can’t think of anything but how soft Michael’s lips are, how warm it feels to be pressed against him, how it makes his skin prickle and blood rush through his veins and leaves him feeling foggy and muddled but at the same time more alive than he’s felt in maybe his entire life.  
   
“Is this alright?” Michael asks anxiously, even though Luke is the one who initiated it.  
   
The air feels thick and weighted around them, like being trapped in a windowless room in the middle of a muggy summer day. Luke should say no, not because he doesn’t want to keep kissing Michael but because he  _shouldn’t_  want to keep kissing Michael, but what comes out of his mouth instead is a breathy, “Yes.”  
   
The next kiss feels far more important, like once they acknowledged its existence it ceased to be something they could pretend never transpired. It’s part of Luke's history, now. No matter where this leads, no matter where the rest of life takes either of them, Luke’s life story is stamped with this day, in April, when he kissed Michael with sunshine streaming into their carriage and the sent of lilac blooms wafting in on the breeze.  
   
The thought thrills him, and then nearly immediately, terrifies him. “But it isn’t, is it?” manages to tumble clumsily out of his mouth, muted against Michael’s lips.  
   
Michael pulls back. “Isn’t what?”  
   
“It isn’t alright.” Fear begins to set in as Luke realizes what they’ve just done, and that they can never undo it.   
   
Michael frowns. “If you’d like to stop you just need to say so.”  
   
Luke shakes his head insistently. “No. It isn’t that it’s not alright with me. It’s not alright with anyone else, is it?”  
   
“Who?”  
   
“Anyone. Everyone.” Luke feels helplessly close to crying again. “Our families. The Church. Anyone at all who might find out. We’d be excommunicated, shunned. Maybe locked away like that boy you told me about, the one they caught you with.”  
   
“I’m not suggesting we do indecent things in the middle of a busy street. No one has to know what we do when we’re alone.” Michael takes Luke’s cheek in his palm, and it feels cold against Luke’s flushed skin. “If … if that’s what you want.”  
   
“How can you always be so calm about these things?”  
   
“I don’t mind so much what people think.” Michael shrugs one shoulder, and his hand travels up into Luke’s hair. Instinctively, Luke turns his cheek into Michael’s touch; his lips brushing Michael’s wrist accidentally but he doesn’t move them away. Michael continues, “I have never once been what anyone wanted of me. I am not the son my father wants. I am not the heir the court wants. I am not the ruler my people deserve. After a lifetime, you grow accustomed to being disappointing.”  
   
The words are so tragic, and Michael says them so casually, and it makes something ache in Luke’s chest. “You aren’t disappointing to me,” he says. His hands feel lost and uncomfortable with nothing to hold on to, so he places them on Michael’s chest, over his heart.  
   
Michael slides his other hand over Luke’s, curling his fingers around the backs of Luke’s palm.  
   
“What if I disappoint you?” Luke worries. “What if this isn’t real, what if I’ve just lost my mind because Jack is gone and I want to punish my parents for taking him away from me and tomorrow everything will go back to the way it was?”  
   
Michael looks at him through slightly squinted eyes, soft with fondness as they always are when he looks at Luke. “It’s okay if you don’t want this.”  
   
The potential consequences Luke weighs in his head are so enormous. Luke has rarely ever taken even small risks in his eighteen years on this earth, and this one is overwhelmingly large. When he looks at Michael, at his green eyes and pale cheeks and lips turned red, other things seem to disappear. The only thing that matters to Luke, in this moment, is the thought of Michael believing even for a second that Luke doesn’t want to kiss him again.  
   
He does kiss Michael again, and even though they’re miles away in a foreign land, it feels like coming home.  
   
*           *           *


	10. lilac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to anyone who's still reading this, sticking with me over such a long hiatus. My inspiration seems to be back so hopefully that won't happen again!

Sun filters in through the high glass ceiling, creating spots in Luke’s vision he has to blink away. The warm, moist air in the glasshouse always calms him, soothes him like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold day, surrounded by the smell of earth and flowers and the revitalizing glow of life that crawls up the walls and blooms bright and colorful all around him. In the dead of winter, this place feels like the only living thing in the entire castle. In the spring and summer, it feels exotic, like the promise of faraway places Luke can only dream of. Each plant here came from somewhere else, from a distant land some lucky person has travelled to, returning filled with stories Luke wishes he could hear. The plants are categorized, in a leger near the entrance, that Luke has read through countless times. He memorizes all the foreign names of all the places in Africa and the Orient and even across the sea in the New World, keeps them in his head in a list, visits them in his dreams because he’ll never see them in person. Not in this life, anyway.  
   
He reaches out to touch soft petals, velvety between his fingertips. The flowers are star-shaped, it turns out, and red. He hadn’t know what their colouring would be, and now they’re opened and they’re dark, blood red around the edges, fading gently to white, and then finally pale green in the very center. They remind him a little of the rosemallow brought back from the Indian subcontinent, but with sharper points to the flared petals. They’re stunning. Luke knew they would be, and he waited all winter to know for sure, and here they are. He waited all winter for the bulbs to warm in the earth, for the green stalks to grow tall and steady, for the flowers to open and spill the fragile secrets they bring from a barren desert halfway across the world. It’s a long time that he simply stares at them, as gardeners move around him and leave him be. They know not to bother him, here. For the first time in his entire life, Luke wishes they would bother him. He wishes someone would come up to him, strike up a conversation about the new spring blooms. They’ve all been waiting the winter for this, too. And he doesn’t care about people’s stations in life, anymore. It had been hammered into him for nearly two decades to care, and then a visitor from a neighbouring land had hammered it back out in just a few months.  
   
As if on cue, Michael’s voice speaks from behind him. “Thought I’d find you here.”  
   
“The Amaryllis bloomed,” Luke says, not turning around to face him.  
   
Michael moves in beside him and takes in the flowers. He touches them, too, like Luke did; gentle fingers exploring smooth petals. “Beautiful.”  
   
“Did you think it would be red?”  
   
“I didn’t have a guess. You?”  
   
Luke shakes his head.  
   
Michael is looking at him. “Could we go for a walk?”  
   
“Okay.” Luke touches a flower one more time, as if he’s saying goodbye, for today. He’ll be back tomorrow.  
   
A warm breeze meets them, rustling through the new leaves on the trees. They walk in silence until they’re far enough away from the castle that they won’t be spotted through the windows, up a path that leads to a stone monument in a circle of towering lilac bushes. It’s the Archangel Raphael, the Saint who purifies romantic unions and drives out demons who would seek to destroy uncorrupted love, and his cold stone eyes look down like he’s mocking them. It doesn’t escape Luke either, that he and Michael were both named for Saints.  
   
“Are you alright?” Michael asks, once they’re truly alone, and Luke doesn’t have to ask to know what he means.  
   
In truth, he isn’t sure. He wants to be. He wants to be confident in everything, the way Michael is, but so many things are unknown and unclear and Luke has never been good with uncertainty. He’s never had much of it. Nearly every minute of his life has been planned and scheduled, and he’s never been given much say in what he does or where he goes or who he sees. The idea of beginning something with Michael behind his parents’ back is terrifying. The idea of what would happen if they were found out is terrifying. Luke still has that story in his head, of the boy Michael had been caught with behind a tavern before he was sent here. The boy who likely is in prison for his crimes, although Michael was never able to find out for sure. Michael didn’t know whether the boy was alive, whether he’d been executed over what they’d done, but it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. It all sits heavy in Luke’s mind, mixed up with the memory of how nice it had felt when Michael was kissing him.  
   
“What would this … be?” he asks, carefully. “If it was something.”  
   
“Whatever you’d like. Or nothing at all. I’m not asking you for anything.”  
   
Luke nods, and considers. “What does it feel like? To know you don’t think about girls the way you should?”  
   
Michael’s smile is sympathetic. “I think maybe you already know how it feels.”  
   
“I wouldn’t want to be married off to a boy with no say in the matter either. It’s the lack of choice I hate more than anything,” Luke argues, but he’s arguing with his own mind more than with Michael.  
   
“I know that. And I believe you. I just don’t think it’s the only reason you’re so resistant to the idea of being married.”  
   
“You think I’m … like you.”  
   
“I don’t know.” Michael sighs. “I can’t answer that for you. I’m sorry, I … if I’d known this would cause you so much turmoil I never would have kissed you.”  
   
“Except you didn’t,” Luke reminds him, and himself, because the distinction is important. “I kissed you.”  
   
Michael blinks, studying Luke’s face, and nods. “You did.”  
   
“You won’t be staying here forever,” Luke says, and then he feels badly, because the look on Michael’s face tells him he isn’t succeeding at all in communicating what he’s feeling. Truthfully he doesn’t know what he’s feeling himself, but he’s making Michael feel as if he’s at fault, and he isn’t. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’m going about this all wrong. I don’t regret what we did. I just don’t know where we go from here.”  
   
“I can’t see the future.” Michael steps a little closer, and Luke’s breath hitches in his chest.   
   
“What happens when you have to leave? We’re both assigned wives that we don’t want, and we live our miserable lives, never seeing each other again? Not to mention you were sent here  _because_ of something like this. What will your father do if he finds out you’re at it again with someone else? What will  _my_ father do?”  
   
“I don’t know,” Michael repeats.  
   
“He’ll think you corrupted me. Or worse, that you attacked me, and I was too weak to fight you off. You’ll be in the kind of trouble we can’t even imagine.”  
   
Michael’s eyes squint, sadness written all over his face as he tries to read Luke’s. “Did I? Did I corrupt you?”  
   
“ _No_ ,” Luke breathes, heartbroken at the idea that Michael thinks he might have. “Not at all, I’m only saying … that’s what he’ll think. He’ll be wrong, but he’s often wrong and he never listens.”  
   
“I don’t know any more than you. I know this is a risk, and I know it’s probably a terrible idea.”  
   
“You still want it?” Luke asks, his voice coming out in a rasp. “Even knowing all that?”  
   
“I just know I’m happy when I’m around you, and I’ve felt comfortable telling you things I never say out loud to anyone. And I liked kissing you. If you don’t feel the same way, that’s alright. We can be friends, like we are now.”  
   
Luke almost wishes he could say he doesn’t feel the same, because it would be far, far easier. It would also be a lie, and Michael deserves the truth. Maybe Luke deserves it, too. Maybe after a lifetime of being a side character in his own story, he deserves to have something he wants. He takes the plunge, moves in a few steps closer and kisses Michael again. Michael’s hands grip his hips and then slide around his back, pulling him in close so they’re pressed together all the way to their ankles, and his tongue comes out to taste, and in an instant, all Luke’s doubt falls away.  
   
*           *           *  
   
It’s lucky the sun is higher in the sky and has warmed the ground and the air around the castle, because Luke suddenly wants to do almost nothing but kiss Michael, and they don’t dare do it inside. They frequent secrets spots in the garden, and in the forest beyond, some days riding an hour on horseback just to spend the afternoon lounging by the river, kissing until their lips are numb. Sweet, chaste kisses quickly turn into deeper explorations of each other’s mouths, and hands on each other’s bodies, intimate and searching and bringing Luke closer than he’s ever been to another person in the space of just a few days. Michael is patient with him, letting Luke set the pace, letting Luke take as long as he needs to become used to it all. Luke quickly discovers it’s even better when lying down. It sparks desires in him, deep in his gut that make him want all sorts of things he always explicitly understood he shouldn’t want until he was married. Things that Michael has done before, and Luke finds himself both insecure at his lack of knowledge and jealous that someone else had Michael that way first. He keeps the second thought to himself, because he knows it isn’t a fair thing to think. The first one, though, he does voice out loud sometimes, and Michael always laughs and tells him he’s beautiful, and rolls him over in the grass to kiss him harder.  
   
A rushing brook is their soundtrack, as their horses graze in the pasture behind them. Michael’s hair is soft, and his lips are softer, and Luke feels intoxicated by him. By the feeling of his body pressing Luke’s into the ground, by the heady weight in the air around them, by the things Michael does with sweeps and swirls of his tongue that leave Luke breathless. Blood rushes in his veins, and it rushes elsewhere too, and he knows Michael can feel that because he can feel Michael, warm through his clothes and stiff, pressing into Luke’s hip. It’s a thrill; an exciting, dangerous adventure that they shouldn’t be on but they are nonetheless, and Luke feels safe on it with Michael here with him.  
   
“Everything about you makes me feel crazy,” Michael tells him, with his voice breathless and his cheeks flushed, and sometimes he says things that make it so hard for Luke to breathe. He says what he’s thinking in a way that Luke has never been able to.  
   
Michael’s lips are so nice against his neck, sucking and licking and certainly leaving marks Luke will have to hide with a high collar to avoid questions to which he doesn’t have decent answers. He’s never felt before the things Michael can make him feel so easily, and he’s properly addicted to it faster than is likely advisable. With Michael in his space, in his nose and his skin and burrowed down underneath to a place where Luke couldn’t so easily scrub him out, Luke finds he doesn’t care. He finds himself delighted to get lost in it, to while away the days just like this.  
   
“You too,” he manages to return, and he can’t help the desperate sound that slips from his lips when Michael kisses his neck and rolls his hips down, sending sparks that feel like fire through Luke’s body. It isn’t the first time it’s been this heated, but it feels different, in a way that makes Luke equal parts want to dive head-first into it, and run away.  
   
“Could I touch you?” Michael whispers, and Luke shivers noticeably.  
   
His heart races. “You are touching me.”  
   
“I meant …”  
   
He already knew what Michael meant, it’s just a boundary they’ve not crossed yet.  
   
Michael lifts his head up and moves off from on top of Luke so he can look at him, head propped up on his hand and his lips bright red and shiny. Luke can’t help it – he reaches out and slides the pad of his thumb over Michael’s plump bottom lip, and Michael kisses it.   
   
“I know what you meant,” Luke says quietly, heart still beating like thunder in his chest.  
   
“Please say no.”  
   
Luke frowns, suddenly confused. “You  _don’t_ want – ?”  
   
“No, I do. I …” Michael’s eyes darken. “I do. But if you don’t … never let me do anything because you think I’ll be angry if you say no. If you don’t want it please tell me.”  
   
Luke chews at his own lower lip, nerves and desire both surging in his chest. “I’ve never …”  
   
“I know.” Michael smiles, sweet and understanding, and moves his fingers over Luke’s cheek. “I know, of course you haven’t. That doesn’t matter.”  
   
“Have you done … everything?” Luke tries to keep from sounding accusing, but isn’t sure he manages it.  
   
“Most things.” Michael’s smile turns sour, like maybe he wishes he hadn’t. “If you want me to, I’ll tell you. But it doesn’t need to matter, if you don’t … mind.”  
   
Luke shakes his head. “I just don’t want to be less than you’re expecting.”  
   
“Stop that.” Michael leans in and kisses him, slow and all-consuming. “You’re already more than that. You’re more important to me than anyone ever has been.”  
   
Luke wants it, he wants all of it. His thoughts drift just for a moment to the fact that Michael means that much to him too, which can only end in tragedy since it can’t be forever, but he pushes that away. Michael lives in the moment without regard for the future and Luke wants that for himself. He wants to just enjoy his life and forget about what might come later. He nods shyly, trying to indicate his consent for whatever Michael wants to do, and Michael kisses him like he’ll die if he stops.  
   
He pulls at Luke’s clothing and Luke tries to reciprocate, to get at Michael’s bare skin so he can put his hands on it, feel all that warmth and softness beneath his fingers. Michael’s fingers dig into his pants and curl around him, and no one has ever touched him there and Luke isn’t prepared for the way it feels. Heat and smooth skin and the delicious slide, leaving him leaking over Michael’s fist and whimpering. He tries to reciprocate that too, his mind racing and vision blurring out around the edges as he puts his hand on Michael, mimicking his movements and earning a moan from Michael that sends a dark chill down Luke’s spine. He wants instantly to spend the rest of his life pulling every possible noise from Michael’s mouth, to use his hands and his lips and his tongue to take Michael apart and piece him lovingly back together. It’s more addictive than ever, touching him like this and being touched, and Luke’s head pounds.  
   
“Is this okay?” Michael asks.  
   
“It feels good,” Luke forces himself to answer even as an embarrassed flush spreads down his neck. Saying these things out loud takes more courage than doing them, he’s realizing.  
   
“Like that,” Michael murmurs in encouragement. “So beautiful like this, Luke. You can … if you’re close, don’t hold back, alright?”  
   
Luke nods, and hears himself moaning embarrassingly loud but it seems to spur Michael on and his hand speeds up, squeezing perfectly and Luke tips over the edge, pleasure blooming bright and intense. He feels it when Michael does too, feels the pulsing in his hand and the wetness that follows and he likes that too, likes knowing it was  _him_  that made Michael feel good.   
   
Michael wipes his hand on the grass and then drags Luke’s heavy, sated body over, so he ends up with his head pillowed on Michael’s chest, floating in the aftermath. It’s never felt quite like this, when Luke has touched himself, and it doesn’t leave him feeling ashamed and weak like that always does. Even though they shouldn’t be doing it with each other any more than on their own, at least according to everyone else, Luke can’t regret this. It feels too much like this is where he fits, in Michael’s arms.   
   
“Fun?” Michael asks after a few minutes, trying to make it light-hearted, but Luke can tell he feels it too – the weighted consequence of the moment.  
   
“Yes,” he answers, blushing and turning his face into Michael’s neck. “Can we do it again tomorrow?”  
   
Michael chuckles, low and heartfelt, and promises, “This and so many other things I can’t wait to show you.”  
   
“Am I really more important to you than anyone?” Luke asks. He dislikes how apprehensive he sounds, but he’s very accustomed to being low on everyone’s list of priorities. It makes his soul happy to know he’s significant to someone in a  _most_  sort of way.  
   
“You don’t know how much I care about you, I suppose because I haven’t told you yet.” Michael kisses his hair. “I was worried about scaring you off. Being here with you … you just accepted me, for everything I am. You still wanted to be around me after you found out my darkest secrets, and now you’re here with me like this when it’s what I’ve wanted for months …”  
   
Luke looks up in surprise. “Months? Were you never going to tell me?”  
   
“How could I?” The smile on Michael’s face is small and sad. “If you didn’t feel the same way, I’d be risking everything.”  
   
Luke nods. He understands, and regrets, that it took them so long to find their way here. There is such an overwhelming sense of belonging, being with Michael like this, and they wasted so much time. “I don’t know if I did all along. But I do now.”  
   
Michael’s smile brightens, and he kisses Luke again, with apple blossoms colouring the sky overhead.  
   
*           *           *

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on tumblr if you want!](http://paper-storm.tumblr.com/)


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